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^ The Amber Star 


AND 


A FAIR HALF-DOZEN. 


"1/ 

MARY LOWE DICKINSON. 



NEW YORK: 

PHILLIPS & HUNT. 
CINCINNATI: 

CRANSTON STOWE. 
1886. 




Copyright, 1886, by 
PHILLIPS & HUNT, 

New York. 


THE 


AMBER STAR. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ There ! Pll leave ye father’s old crutches, and if 
you want any thing, jest thump on the wall. I’ve 
the supper to git for the hired men and the speaker 
set down the tray with a bang, and backed toward the 
door. The invalid’s wistful eyes followed her, as if 
she might have asked something had time been 
given to speak; and perhaps Hannah Wilde felt their 
mute appeal, for her tall, lank figure lingered a mo- 
ment on the threshold. 

“Don’t want nothin’ now, I s’pose, do ye? Say 
quick, if ye do ; for I’ve left the kittle on, and water’ll 
be b’ilin’ all over the stove, fust thing ye know.” 

“No, no, I will not keep you, Hannah ; I only wish 
you ever could stop long enough to sit down. It is 
hard to see you always at work, while I must sit with 
folded hands.” 

“ Well, sick folks ginerally aint very smart to work, 
and ought to be thankful if they aint oblceged to. 


4 


The Amber Star. 


If ever T do set down a spell, I’m more beat out than 
when I keep a-goin’. Settin’ agrees with some ; lucky 
it don’t with me, for it does seem ’s if the men-folks 
Loren hires in harvestin’ would eat us outer house 
and home! It’s one woman’s work to keep ’em in 
vittles ! ” 

“You ought to have some one to help you, Han- 
nah,” said a voice behind her, and a young man of 
about twenty-eight years of age, clad in blue woolen 
frock and overalls, the working garb of the farmer, 
appeared at the door. 

“ Goodness ! Loren, are you done work a’ready ? 
How, that’s just the way ! Here I stand gabblin’, till 
there pours in on to me a whole passel o’ men-folks, 
and I haint so much as chopped the hash ! Guess I 
can stir up a mess o’ slap-jacks ’bout ’s quick as any 
thing.” And away she bustled, to create such a hurri- 
cane in the kitchen as set the fire crackling, the pots 
and kettles rattling, and glass and china fairly bounc- 
ing from shelf to table. 

Before the door that shut her into the kitchen had 
given its aggressive bang, the young man had reached 
the invalid’s side, and stood looking tenderly down 
upon her pale face. 

“ You wanted something, mother, that Hannah for- 
got to bring ; what was it ? ” 

“ O no, dear, I didn’t ask for any thing ; she was in 


The Aiviber Star. 


5 


such ti hurry, I didn’t like to hinder her; but I 
would like the chair by the window before sunset: I 
want to see the light.” 

He did not wait for her to cease speaking before 
he laid a strong, steady hand upon the old-fashioned 
sofa, and moved it noiselessly toward the window, 
bl-ought pillows from the bed, spread a shawl as dex- 
terously as a woman could have done it, and then 
came and gathered the frail little woman up in his 
arms, and laid her tenderly upon the couch, just 
where her lifted eyes could see the glory of the west- 
ern sky! He did not withdraw his arms, but knelt 
on the floor beside her, and scanned her face anxious- 
ly as she lay quite content, lifting now and then, as 
a loving child might have done, her thin hand to 
caress his sunburnt cheek. 

The likeness between the faces was very plainly 
traced, as they sat thus, his brown curly hair almost 
touching her silver locks. Hannah said “he was 
most all mother;” and the clear grey eyes and the 
sensitive mouth were certainly an inheritance from 
her ; while the sturdy breadth of shoulders and stal- 
wart strength of limb came, to use Hannah’s phrase 
again, “ from t’other side o’ the house.” And Han- 
nah was doubtless right. The working power that 
made him as patient and almost as silent a burden- 
bearer as his own oxen, that forced the hard soil of 


6 


The Amber Star. 


his native hills to be more gracious to him than to 
his neighbors, was characteristic of his race. Han- 
nah possessed them, too; but the difference of a 
quarter of a century in their respective ages was 
enough, perhaps, to account for the difference in 
brother and sister. He worked, and was silent. She 
worked, and complained as much as she liked. Yet 
she could not have been made to cease working ; and 
he would gladly have given it up any day of the ten 
years since his father died, and he was summoned to 
take charge of the farm. He was a boy of eighteen 
then, teaching his first school to earn money to help 
him to what Hannah called “ book le’rnin.” Of what 
it cost to give up the thought of a life and world 
beyond the farm, that he might keep the home for 
his gentle mother and his half-sister, he had never 
said as many words as Hannah said at any one time 
when the hired men tramped over a clean floor, or a 
thunder shower soured the milk, or the setting hens 
hid their neats. She lived to get the work done, 
groaned that she had it to do, yet was “ all beat out ” 
if she had to sit still. 

When she grumbled, Lorenzo often suggested a 
servant; but she resisted, sometimes tincturing her 
refusal with remarks “ that the more women-folks in 
a house the more work and worry as a gin’ral thing. 
If they are blood relations, they must put up with 


The Amber Star. 


7 


one another, whether or no ; but if not, one woman 
in a house is enough, that’s what I always tho’t, and 
I haint no reason yit to change my mind.” So Loren 
had learned to let her alone, except when like re- 
marks were made in his mother’s hearing; and then, 
the way he looked and spoke to her would have dis- 
pelled any delusion that he belonged to the weaker 
side of the house. Still, his arms could not lay down 
their daily burden, to rear a great bulwark of tender 
strength and protective love between the frail 
mother and the harder nature of his sister ; nor could 
his watchful care prevent his mother’s state of nerv- 
ous apology for being ill and idle, and, therefore, to 
Hannah a burden and care. True, this was the home 
to which her husband had brought her from the 
peace and stillness of her Quaker brother’s house, 
the Forest Farm, five miles away beyond the Fran- 
conia hills ; and he had left her the right to be there 
till she died, when the farm was to belong to Han- 
nah, the daughter of his former marriage, and to 
Loren, her only son. Timid, shrinking, and gentle, 
she had often felt herself a usurper, even in stronger 
days, when she could take her full share of household 
work and care. 

In the home Hannah had been mistress before her 
father’s new wife came, and she continued to be mis- 
tress still; and she might even have forgiven the 


8 


Thf Amber Stab. 


new comer for becoming her father’s wife, had she 
been made of stuff which could do battle. But the 
crowning aggravation of her intrusion was the gen- 
tleness that would bear and forbear; but would 
neither quarrel nor resist. 

So, having no antagonist, Hannah’s aggressive 
nature had to fight her work. To it she gave her 
strength and time, resolved to drive her step-mother 
from the realm of labor, by leaving nothing to be 
done. Up before day, getting the scrubbing, cooking, 
churning, so nearly done, that when the feeble 
woman took her place, Hannah was ready with, 
“ ’Taint no use botherin’ round now ; ought ter bin 
at it hours ago if you really meant to help.” 

“ But I did not know that you meant to do it to 
day, Hannah — ” 

“Waal, I didn’t know myself, mebbe! When one 
thing’s done, I take hold of the next one ; I don’t 
lose time, calkerlaten to do things ; I jest do ’em.” 
So between Hannah’s scorn of her step-mother’s ways, 
and her husband’s utter blindness as to the true con- 
dition of things, the little woman made slow progress 
toward being mistress of her home. Deacon Wilde 
felt himself the charm of the gentler tones and more 
refined speech of his young wife, and missed some- 
thing, he scarce knew what, from the manner of his 
strong-willed daughter. He felt one as a sweeter 


The Amber Star. 


9 


influence than the other ; but he did not at all know 
why. People wouldn’t turn out alike, no more than 
trees,” he said, “even if they were planted in the 
same soil;” and there he left it. If his kind old 
lieart held any secret hope that Hannah would be 
softened by his wife’s sweet ways, he was disap- 
pointed. While secretly she liked them, she yet 
called all amenities of speech and manners so 
many “airs,” attempts to be better than common 
folk. 

But when the baby Loren came, for a time there 
was a change. In her secret heart there was nothing, 
there never had been any thing, which the woman 
loved better than that boy. If the mother could have 
carried her conciliatory spirit so far as to have gone 
to lieaven, all the warped and twisted fibers of gen- 
uine womanly and motherly nature would have 
straightened out and made Hannah a true and loving 
mother to the little ^one. But Mrs. Wilde not only 
did not die, but the quiescent and passive wife and 
house-mistress proved strong as any queen in defense 
of the divine rights of motherhood. It was she who 
nursed and fed and taught and reared her boy, 
growing strong for his sake ; and finding in him the 
nourishment for her own hungering life ; dowering 
him richly with all the checked and hoarded vitality 
of her thought and love. They knew each other 


10 


The Amber Star. 


without words, and were enough for each other, 
through all his early years. 

But this oneness in them, though she was forced to 
submit to it, was not easy for Hannah to bear. She 
had never forgiven his mother for being her father’s 
wife ; she found it harder to forgive her for being the 
mother of the boy. She loved her baby brother with 
a suppressed, savage, and jealous love; for she was 
over thirty years old, and had never loved any thing 
before. Yet she would not let the mother know how 
the boy possessed her heart. When he pleaded to go 
away to a better school than the village afforded, it 
was Hannah who stoutly opposed it, on the ground 
of needless expense, hardly conscious that her true 
reason was that she could not bear to miss him from 
the house. Yet, when he undertook to teach, to sup- 
ply himself with means for study, she secretly put 
into the corners of his trunk all the money which she 
had been able to hoard. And when, later, the father 
died, and the boy came home to take his parent’s 
place, poor Hannah’s comfort in the sorrow was, 
“ that now Lorenzo could not go out of her sight.” 

Then, when the long, slow invalidism, under which 
the mother was wasting, came ; when Hannah saw 
them together, hand to hand and cheek to cheek, as she 
did to-night, when she sent to call Loren to supper 
— if her heart gave a great jealous, triumphant throb, 


The Amber Star. 


11 


in anticipation of a day when she should have him all 
to herself — she did not reproach herself, but inwardly 
‘‘ thanked her stars that she had taken up her cross, as 
it were, and done her duty ” by the sick woman all 
these many years. 

Loren was very silent at table, but Hannah saw 
deep shadows in his eyes. He did not go out, as 
usual, to take a last look at the cattle, and to feed his 
favorite horse; but turned again to his mother’s 
room, and took the old place at her side. 


12 


The Amber Star. 


CHAPTER 11. 

The farm was two miles from the village, whose 
white church spire rose clear against the evening skj. 
Its acres spread along the slopes, with the forest 
crowning the hill behind it, and making a back- 
ground for the old gray house, now gray as the moss- 
grown rocks in the pasture land below. Around, on 
the neighboring hills, stood farm-houses, like his 
own, more or less touched with the frosts of time. 
And away beyond the village and the valley rose the 
forest-crowned mountains of the Franconia range ; 
and farther distant, and higher still, the Presidential 
peaks, with Mount Washington lifting its bare head 
bravely to the clouds. It was a fair picture, with 
this sunset light pouring in great waves over the 
corn-tields, whose dry stacks stood erect, as if a row of 
sentinels, set to guard the golden treasure of pump- 
kins at their feet. The green of the grassy slopes 
had faded to a soft and velvet-like gray; solitary 
maples stood out here and there, flaming like torches 
alight on the hill-sides ; and the nearer forests were all 
ablaze with the bronze of the oaks, and the gold of the 
birches, mingled with the dark foliage of the pines. 


The Amber Star. 


13 


The patch of woods between them and the -valley 
was a glowing mosaic of color, and far away the 
tree-tops on the mountain-sides seemed, through the 
soft autumn haze, fairly to glow and burn. Over the 
somber gorge of Lafayette a silver cloud hung low, 
and lingered, as if it could not bear to leave one 
shadowy spot untouched. Mother and son w^atched 
the familiar picture, as they had often done ; but to- 
night the wistful eyes could not bear to lose one 
golden gleam. She watched the hills, but Loren 
watched her face. 

“ Are you not feeling as well as usual, dear 
mother? ” 

“ Yes, darling ; but the day has been so beautiful, 
and I have lost so much of it, that it seems hard to 
take my eyes one moment from the hills.” 

“ But why do you lose the hours at the window, if 
the hills are so much to you, mother dear ? ” 

She only said, ‘‘ I think I am growing covetous of 
all the beautiful things. The autumn never was so 
fair, and each day I feel may be the last.” 

“ O, mother ! don’t say that !” and he bent his head 
over her hand, and kissed it fervently ; “ you are 
certainly better these October days.” 

“ Yes, my son ; but the IN’ovember winds and frosts 
are near. The trees are brighter, but they will fade 
and wither all the same.” 


14 


The Amber Star. 


“ Don’t let us speak of it, mother. I cannot meet 
what life will be without you.” 

“ And yet, I must speak of it, Loren. There are 
many things I want to say to you, and I am strong 
enough to talk to-night, and I do not like to speak, 
feeling you are unwilling to hear.” 

A little shiver ran through the young man’s frame, 
but he said softly, as he lifted her a little on the pil- 
lows: “Well, dear mother, let us talk now in the 
dark, and you shall tell me every thing you wish me 
to do.” 

“I only want you to do what will make you 
happy, dear.” 

“ Happy ! ” he said, under his breath ; “ as if I 
could be happy.” 

“Perhaps not at first, Loren ; I know I have been 
closer to you than mothers often are, and you to me 
have been all my life’s joy. But 1 should be sorry to 
think all joy would go out of life with me. Some- 
thing will come to you — something has come already, 
Loren. You love Esther very dearly, do you not ?” 

“ Yes, mother, I love her — God knows that!” 

“ And she loves you, Loren ? ” 

“ Sometimes I have hoped so, mother ; ” still with 
the head bent down. 

A sudden noise on the porch, under the window, 
startled him. He leaned forward, and looked out. 


The Amber Star. 


15 


It was only Hannah who had been sitting on the 
step by the front door. Had she heard him ? He 
had not time to conjecture, for his mother went on : 
“ But you have not spoken ? ” 

“Ho, I have not spoken — and — and I doubt if I 
ever shall ! I have nothing to offer her, mother — no 
home but this, and this, without you in it, to love her 
and make her welcome ” 

A spasm of pain crossed the mother’s face, which 
Loren did not see ; pain — all mother-hearts know it 
— at her powerlessness to spare her child. She 
caressed his hair ,a moment with her hand before she 
spoke again. At last she said, softly: “Perhaps 
Hannah will sell her share of the farm, Loren.” 

“ There’s not the faintest chance of that, mother ! 
It’s the only spot she loves, and she was born here. 
And the farm came to father through her mother, we 
must remember. I should have no right to ask her 
to give it up. I used to hope that I could make a 
life elsewhere, and leave my share to her.” He 
paused, and his mother finished the sentence for him. 

“But it’s late to begin a new life, you think, 
and it would be years before you could make a new 
home. Hannah has nothing with which to buy your 
half of the farm ; you nothing, if you give it to her. 
Besides, what could she do with it, without you to 
care for it, my son? Yet, Loren, I doubt if we 


16 


The Amber Star. 


old women had any right to use your young fresh life 
as we have done. I can’t help hoping some way will 
open to another field for you — but — but if it does not 
— if you continue to make this your home, then — ” 

“ Then I must never ask Esther to share it.” 

Both were silent; both accepted the bitter fact. 
The mother was first to speak. No, Loren ; much 
as it hurts me to say it, yet I do say, you must not 
bring another woman here, to live the life that I 
have lived. Your sister must never be displaced 
again. She is too old to bear it, even as well as she 
bore it before. No joy would compensate for the 
wretchedness of the daily life. She would not mean 
it. She would not know it, perhaps ; but she would 
none the less worry one’s life away.” 

“ I know it, mother — I know it,” said Loren, bit- 
terly. “ I do not see of what my father could have 
been thinking when he brought you here.” 

“ He meant it well,” said the mother, sadly ; “ he 
did not understand. But you do, my darling ; and 
you would spare any one you loved ! ” 

“ Yes, mother, I promise you, I will never ask 
Esther, or any other woman, to share this home.” 

“ But a way will open, love, if you do your duty as 
you have done. God will surely open your way.” 

“ I shall do my duty mother ; but — ” 

“ Well I I declare ef you two aint there yit, in the 


The Amber Star. 


17 


moonlight, more like a couple o’ lovers than like an 
old woman and a grown-up man. It makes no differ- 
ence to you, I s’pose, that can lay a-bed in the morn- 
ing, late ’s yer like ; but I should like to get to bed.” 

It was only Hannah’s rough way ; for she aided the 
invalid with touches that were gentler than her words ; 
and after she had gone, Loren came back, and sat by 
his mother’s side until she fell asleep. 

He was up early in the morning ; but for the next 
week he did not once don his blue frock and go into 
the harvest field. The men came up to the old, long, 
back kitchen for their meals ; and he came out to 
speak about the work, looking so old and worn, that 
they hushed their talk, and said, “ they guessed 
mebbe, the old lady was kinder failin’ .” 

Hannah went about in grim silence, half-awed by 
the shadow on the threshold, and more than half- 
provoked at Loren, ‘‘who insisted on nussin’ his 
mother, as if she hadn’t nussed sick folks long 
enough ’fore he was born ! ” 

The dreaded frost came one night, and the next 
day, in the clear, bright sunlight, the trees passed 
from glory to glory. Once more Loren took the 
wasted form to the couch by the window, and while 
her eyes drank in the beauty, her soul drifted out 
into the sunset — so swiftly, that no farewells were 

said ; so gently, that no one knew when she was gone. 

2 


18 


The Amber Star. 


CHAPTEE III. 

It was a beautiful harvest day, but the farmers left 
their fields, and the women their work, and from 
miles around they came to the funeral of the woman 
w'ho had been known among them as the ‘‘ widder of 
Deacon Wilde.” At an early hour many vehicles, 
farm -wagons, buck-boards, “buggies,” and carriages, 
surrounded the farm-house gate. Women seated 
themselves in the parlors, and took mental inventory 
of the furniture ; smoothed their gowns with fingers 
that could not help being fidgety on a week-day in 
their Sunday gloves, and whispered and sighed at 
intervals, with minds divided between neighborly 
sympathy and curiosity. 

The men stood in groups in the porch or about the 
yard, till Parson Burgess arrived, when they followed 
him and his daughter Esther into the house. She 
took her place with the quartette from the church 
choir, in the darkened parlor, at one end of which 
the gentle woman lay, with the silver hair shining 
through the gloom. A white cloth covered the 
round-topped stand, upon which lay the family Bible. 

Hannah was there, sitting grim and still ; but Loren 


The Amber Star. 


19 


was not to be seen. The door of his mother’s room 
stood ajar; and there, out of sight, where he could 
see nothing but his mother’s sleeping face, he sat. 
He did not hear the words of Scripture, or of prayer ; 
but when the voice of Esther rose in the hymn, the 
tears sprang to his eyes, and he felt his mother would 
be glad that she was near. He never lifted his eyes 
to meet kind neighborly glances as he passed to his 
seat in the carriage by Hannali’s side ; he never lifted 
them to the glowing hills during the ride to the 
church-yard, in the outskirts of the town ; but as he 
turned away from the new grave, he became con- 
scious of Esther’s eyes watching him through her 
tears, and again a ray of comfort stole into his dark- 
ened heart. 

The snows came early that year. Loren felt the 
world wept and mourned with him. November rains 
chilled and drenched the glow of color from the 
leaves that were so sunny and golden on the day his 
mother died ; perce winds followed, stripping the 
trees of even their nun-like robes of brown ; and the 
whistling snows%ame hurrying on, and buried them, 
with the mosses and withered ferns under its frosty 
robe. 

Winter came early, and lingered late that year, and 
at the Wilde Farm all was icy and grim. Upon 
Hannah’s secret comfort, that Loren had now no one 


20 


The Amber Star. 


but herself, there stole often that jealous fear that 
Esther Burgess might have won his heart. But as 
winter advanced, and he gave himself to his work, 
rarely going to the village, except on Sunday, spend- 
ing his leisure in his mother’s room among his books, 
she grew more at ease, and really strove to do all in 
her power to make it a comfortable home. When 
one day he found that his mother’s room liad been 
cleared of every familiar article, his heart showed its 
first sign of life. 

“ What do you propose to do with the room, Han- 
nah?” 

‘‘ Clean it, and paint it, and put the parlor furni- 
ture in here, and make a sitting room of the parlor.” 

O no ! sister, I can’t let that be done. Clean, if 
you'think it necessary, and do as you please with all 
the rest of the house ; but put every thing back here 
just as it was, and then let it alone.” 

‘‘ Why, Loren, I never did 1 — ” 

“Don’t let us talk about it, Hannah. It wont 
hurt you to leave it, and it hurts me to have it 
changed.” 

And though she openly disapproved, and secretly 
rebelled, the room was left as Loren wished. Her 
idea of making him happy was to work and to save 
for him, and she did it, unconscious that her ways 
often tantalized far more than they helped. 


The Amber Star. 


21 


When at last the chill of winter began to yield to 
the warmth of spring, Hannah saw things in Loren 
that she called “signs of a thaw.” He w^ent fre- 
quently to the village; his eye w^as brighter; his 
head more erect, and his voice had a cheery sound. 
She ought to have been glad ; but, alas ! to her it 
meant that the love of Esther Burgess was growing 
and ripening in his heart, and that again her life was 
to be “ pestered out by the coming of another 
woman ” into the home. 

But she crossed her bridge before she came to it ; 
there was no reason for fear. Loren remembered 
his mother’s warning; and, much as he loved the 
pastor’s daughter, he would not ask her to share the 
home with Hannah Wilde. Unfortunately for him- 
self, Loren was wanting in that peculiar masculine 
assurance, that what a man wishes, must be the best 
for all concerned ; so the fact that he wanted Esther 
near was not sufficient proof to his mind that he 
could surely make her happy. Neither did he feel 
he should persuade her into an acknowledgment of 
love, while the time seemed so distant when he could 
offer her a home. So he possessed his soul in 
patience, and forced himself to be silent toward the 
precious girl, who was only the more dearly, because 
so secretly, beloved. 

So, as the summer wore on, Hannah watched 


22 


The Ambee Stae. 


vainly for signs of a renewal of the association. She 
knew, for she had overheard his confession to his 
mother that autumn night, that her brother loved the 
girl ; and her nervous anxiety on the subject some- 
times almost betrayed her into angry taunts. One 
day she returned from the village, shaking the reins 
on the back of the old white horse, and talking to 
herself with more than unusual emphasis as she 
slowly ascended the hill. Loren, coming from the 
fields, entered the gate as she reached it, and .she 
could not wait to deliver the news she had brought. 

“ Well, it's jest as I expected : she’s jest that kind 
of a girl, and I always knew it.” 

Loren gazed at her curiously, as she avoided his 
offered hand, and jumped to the ground. 

‘‘That Esther Burgess is inakin’ herself perfectly 
rediklous, and she a parson’s daughter ! A pretty 
example she’s settin’, goin’ round with a pictur’- 
painter all over tlie hills. Why she’ll be the town- 
talk.” 

Loren’s eyes flashed, but he never asked a question. 
He knew too well that any arrow Hannah let fly at 
that mark would be poisoned by her own jealousy 
and spite. 

But Hannah would not succumb for any assumed 
indifference ; and when he came in, after taking the 
horse to the barn, she stood patting her hair between 


The Amber Star. 


23 


her hands by the little foot-square mirror in the 
kitchen clock. 

“ I don’t s’pose you’ll believe it, Loren.” 

‘‘ Believe what ? I don’t believe any evil of Estlier 
Burgess, if that’s what you mean ! ” 

“Well, I s’pose you’d believe your own eyes. I 
saw them myself — a black-whiskered-man and Esther 
sittin’ by the road-side ’twixt here and town. He was 
makin’ a pictur’ of the hill, or the gorge ; or more 
likely ’twas Esther’s face. And he’s been a-payin’ 
’tention to her all the summer. He’s the same feller 
that was up here last summer, stayin’ over to the hotel 
in the Notch ; and they do say she’s engaged to him 
now.” 

Loren’s face grew more hard and set, but he only 
said : “ And whom do you mean by they ? ” ♦ 

“Well, all tlie village of Wiltonby, and Mrs. Mad- 
dles, who’s took him to board. He wanted to be 
nearer, I s’pose, than he was last year, bein’ as he 
was engaged.” 

“ How can you believe such gossip, Hannah ? The 
artist is a stranger and a foreigner ; that is, he is half- 
English and half-Italian. Do you think Parson Bur- 
gess would like such a son-in-law ? ” 

“ No, more he don’t ! ” snapped Hannah ; “ he’s 
’bout heart broke, so they say ; but she wont hear to 
reason, and now she’s worrited her father into con- 


24 : 


The Amber Star. 


sent ; and they are going to be married ; and he’s 
promised to take her to Italy, ’mongst his folks; 
s’pose likely they’ll grind organs, and sell chestnuts 
round the streets.” 

“ Well, if that is true, Hannah, then be sure that 
Parson Burgess knows all about him. He’s a good 
artist, and, as far as any body can learn, a good man, 
with means enough to give Esther a pleasant life.” 

“Well, if you stand up for her, I am beat ! I don’t 
see how you know so much about it ; ” she added, a 
cunning desire to go to the bottom of his knowledge 
getting the better of her secret triumph. 

“ Of course, I know what people say ; and if Esther 
wants to marry him, that is her own affair; but I 
don’t believe a word of it, notwithstanding.” 

And at that very moment the terror in his heart, lest 
it might be true, was all that he could bear, and not 
cry out in anguish. Dallying, concealing, taking for 
granted that he could win her — could it be true tha, 
he had lost her ? 

That night before he slept, he sought the pastor, 
her father and his friend, and from him he learned 
the truth. 

“ 1 don’t know really why my heart misgives me 
so,” he said, wringing Loren’s hand; “the man 
seems to be, and is, so far as I can learn, most wor- 
thy of her. I could have wished it different,” he 


The Amhek Star. 


25 


said, with a glance at Loren ; but I can do nothing 
more. They will go to Italy, where his father’s fam- 
ily came. from, and he will pursue his art there. He 
has some means, and her heart seems set upon it; 
though I think it is the chance of change and travel, 
and all that, that tempts her. Anyway, it’s all set- 
tled now.” 

And Loren went out of the minister’s little study 
to wander, he scarce knew where, up and down the 
hill-sides, to fight out the fight in his own heart ; to 
conquer that which made it so hard for him not to hate 
his life and his home and his sister, and every thing, 
save the memory of his mother’s love. He made his 
way to her grave at last, and there grew still enough 
to go home. At morning he came out from his room 
and went about his work ; but there was something 
in his face that kept even Hannah still. 

She had triumphed : he had nothing but herself. 
But she was afraid to be glad ; and though she 
watched eagerly every sign of progress in the court- 
ship, and knew every detail of Esther’s quiet mar- 
riage and departure from beneath her father’s roof ; 
and though her views and comments often rose to 
her lips, yet the silence that had fallen between her 
and her brother, concerning his mother, widened and 
included Esther, as if she too were dead. 


26 


The Amber Star. 


CHAPTEE lY. 

The six years following Esther’s departure were 
too short for many changes in the little town among 
the Franconia hills, but long enough to see the 
graves of her father and her mother grow green in 
the little church-yard, and long enough to touch Lo- 
ren’s hair with many a thread of gray. They were 
years of as calm content to Hannah as any that she 
had ever known since Loren’s mother came. With 
the strange contradiction that sometimes marks the 
warping of a hard nature, she felt a great resentment 
at the woman who had won and wasted his love. 
While she would have used every effort to keep her 
oht of the home, she hated her for her power to 
make. Loren want her there. That he did long for 
her and miss her she never doubted, though he never 
spoke of her ; and his kindness to herself never 
seemed to fail. He sat at the table which she pre- 
pared ; he read the Bible at morning devotions ; he 
drove beside her to church ; he placed her interests 
before his own. He lived beside her, but not with 
her; they were neighbors rather than friends. So 
she cherished hard and bitter thoughts of the two, in 


The Amber Star. 


27 


whose memory he found his companionship, and 
clung to a sense of ownership in the qualities that 
made him “ looked up to ” among his fellows. She 
appropriated his virtues in place of his love ; felt his 
goodness a credit to her rearing. If the season 
proved hard for some unlucky neighbor, it was Lo- 
ren who aided him without feeling it any thing out of 
the common line. Loads of wood from his lots found 
their way to the yards of the widows or the aged 
poor. The town business came naturally into his 
hands ; the church looked to him whenever its days 
were dark ; and farmers said, they “ wished their 
boys might make such men as Loren Wilde.” 

And while the autumn of the sixth year made her 
crown of crimson and gold for the mountains, away 
in a sunny land, where the only change was the slow 
pallor that turns to gray the green of the olive 
boughs, sat the woman he had loved. 

It was one of the narrowest streets of Eome, a 
mere alley, between the gaudy Via Babuino and the 
steep cliff of the Pincian hill. Five minutes to the 
right, and one was in the broad sunshine of the Pi- 
azza del Popolo. The same distance to the left, and 
the gay di Spagna wooed the loiterer to linger within 
sound of the tinkle of its fountains. Above, the pines 
and palms of the Monte Pincio beckoned and nod- 
ded, and the tramp of horses and the footsteps and 


28 


The Amber Star, 


voices of the gay crowd could be heard at sunset. 
Yet the little by-way was dark and damp; mud ran 
in the gutter below ; the flowers, that seemed to live 
even in the shade in Rome, withered in the little 
court, from which innumerable stairs climbed up to 
the “ ultimo piano,” a dingy studio at the very top. 
It was so high, that the gay Pincian throng could 
have looked in at its windows ; and away up there 
was one balcony which grew warm and bright in the 
sunshine that flooded the hill. Upon this balcony a 
little boy sat, watching with childish delight the car- 
riages slowly winding up the hill, or the horsemen 
who paused to listen to the music, or to chat with 
friends. The gay equipages passed on around the 
circle, only to appear again, an ever-returning delight 
to the half-imprisoned child. 

He was a sturdy little fellow, with rosy cheeks 
and blue English eyes. Though not yet six years of 
age, he looked at least a year or two older. He had 
tied a string to the railing ; and as the horses pranced 
upon the hill, he drove his imaginary steeds with a 
jaunty toss of the head, and many a flourish of the 
olive bough, which served him instead of a whip. 
The window behind him was open, but the child did 
not heed the voice of his mother, who sat within, 
softly singing to a baby girl, some eighteen months 
old, that lay asleep upon her lap. The room was 


The Ambee Star. 


29 


nearly bare of furniture, and showed its occupants 
had tried to make it serve both studio and home. 
Against the gray walls stood several pictures in vari- 
ous stages of progress. Upon an easel was a finished 
picture of a “ Holy Family,” in which it was easy to 
see that the artist’s family had served as models. 
The young, patient face of the mother, as she bent 
over the babe, the sunny curls of the child, were on 
the canvas, and in the infant St. John leaning against 
the mother’s knee reappeared the sturdy figure of 
the boy. 

A long curtain hung midway across the room half 
concealing the couches, table, and cooking utensils of 
the little family, — all showing marks of poverty not 
far removed from abject want. The low lullaby died 
on. the mother’s lips as she heard a step on the stair, 
and she glanced up with an anxious look into her 
husband’s eyes. 

He answered her look with one scarcely less troub- 
led, and drawing a chair to her side and laying his 
hand gently on the head of the baby girl said, in a 
low tone, “ Well, Esther, it’s only another failure ; I 
cannot raise the money for the journey.” 

The woman’s lips quivered, and her face was a 
shade paler. “But have you done nothing, Ko- 
berto ? ” 

“ I have sold the picture of the Sorrento coast, 


30 


The Amber Star. 


and the Peasant Group ; but the proceeds will not 
pay our passage.” 

“ What are we to do, then ? ” asked the lady, sadly. 
“ Surely, Roberto, no one ever tried harder than you 
have done. We cannot stay and starve, and we can- 
not get the means to go home.” 

I think you are right in saying I have tried. I 
felt so sure of success ; but each year it becomes 
harder. I never painted so well ; yet the market is 
overcrowded, and it is not always the merit of the 
picture that commands a purchaser.” 

The man arose and paced up and down the floor, 
folding his hands behind him, and dropping his head 
dejectedly upon his breast. His wife rose softly and 
laid the sleeping baby upon the couch, taking care 
that her husband should not see the tears that fell 
upon its sunny head. 

“ Papa, come and see me drive my horses ; ” shouted 
the little fellow from the balcony. 

“ Hush, Lawrie ! ” said the mother, as she passed 
and joined his father in the walk. 

‘‘ Courage, Roberto ; we shall yet be able to get 
home. You have friends there, and so have I ; and 
once there, your woi’k will be sure to sell.” 

‘‘ But the way, Esther ! I do not see the way. 
And the courage is not hard to keep for myself ; but 
for you and the children.” 


The Amber Star. 


31 


Roberto, will the money you have take you to 
your aunt ? ” 

He started, and an angry flush came to his face. 
“To my aunt ? take my family to my aunt, in 
beggary ? She would not give me a soldi, Esther. 
My coming would only be one more thing to 
forgive.” 

“ But she has nothing to forgive ; you have done 
no wrong ! ” 

“ Ho, Esther ; but I might as well have been 
wicked, as unfortunate. She has never forgiven my 
mother for marrying my Italian father. They were 
orphan sisters ; and Aunt Carruth had my mother in 
her care. She hated my father because he was not 
Scotch, I suppose, for there could have been no 
other reason ; and although he never took a dollar of 
my mother’s little fortune, but left it for aunt to 
protect and increase, she never freed him from the 
suspicion of unworthy motives. Indeed, she never 
approved of any thing that he did, except his dying. 
Then she took my mother home, and she died there, 
and left me to my aunt’s care. She loved me, I think, 
and wanted to be kind ; but she hated any sign of 
my father’s tastes, and I had them, every one. I 
was Italian, and she tried to make me Scotch, but 
failed ; I rebelled, went my own way, and loved my 
father’s art and my father’s land.” 


32 


The Amber Stab. 


“ Surely, that was right, my hushand ! Why do 
you speak so bitterly ? ” 

‘‘ Because I do not know if it was right I As it has 
proved, it seems all wrong. When she found I would 
not put my little fortune in business, she gave it to 
me intact, not a penny lost, of all my grandmother 
left my mother. It was not much ; but it seemed 
much to me, and I traveled and studied, and did no 
real work, till I saw you and loved you. Tlien I 
began to work in earnest. Keally, I believed I could 
make you happy, dear” — and he threw his arm 
around her protectingly. “ And now it has come to 
this ! ” 

“ But it is not your fault, Roberto ; it's not your 
fault. Surely we have lived carefully, and you have 
worked well ; and if that cruel fire had not destroyed 
your pictures, I am sure they would have been 
sold. And it will be well yet, Roberto. Let us try 
Aunt Carruth ; she cannot be unforgiving still. We 
need not ask her to give; only to loan what will 
take us home. We can return it by and by.” 


The Ambek Stab. 


33 


CHAPTEK Y. 

Much longer they talked ; and it ended tliiis : 
There was money enough to take Eoberto to Glas- 
gow, where his aunt resided ; and from thence, if she 
would loan it, he could send money back for the 
mother and children, who would join him in Glas- 
gow, whence they could sail for America. It was a 
hard thing for the man to do ; and for himself he 
would have preferred to starve, but no wall of pride 
must be allowed to shut out the last hope for his lit- 
tle flock. It was a hard thing for the mother to do, 
to let him go, and to be left with just money enough 
to pay the studio rent, and buy bread for herself and 
babes — just enough, nothing over — and then to wait 
and to pray and to hope, until she could hear again. 
But she would stay in-doors, so that if any visitors 
came to buy, as possibly they might,, she would not 
lose one chance. She would put her scanty ward- 
robe in order, and make all ready for the journey ; 
and soon the letter would come. In their earnest 
talk they had forgotten the little boy, who tired of 
play, had stolen in, and stood by his mother’s knee. 
Just as his father said: “Well, Esther, I will go; 

and the sooner the better.” 

3 


34 


The Amber Star. 


“ And I will go, too, mamma ! ” the child exclaimed. 
“Go where, you darling?” she asked, drawing 
him close to her lap. “ Do you think you could go 
and help papa to take care of mamma and baby sis- 
ter, little man ? ” 

“ Yes, yes, dear mamma, Lawrie wants to go and 
help papa ; can I ? ” 

The parents exchanged looks ; and suddenly it 
flashed across her mind that the bonnie brown curls 
and blue eyes of her fair-browed Scotch-looking boy 
might be a better help to papa than any tale of tal- 
ent unrecognized or courage lost. 

“ Could you take him, Berto ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed ; but could you spare him ? ” 

“ Perhaps it might be best. Perhaps one will be 
enough for me when I make the journey alone ; he 
will not be too great a care to you ? ” 

“ [N'o, no, a comfort instead ; ” and the sad-heart- 
ed man arose to go out and make his preparations, 
while the mother hugged the boy to her heart, and 
tried to forget that in giving to his father an added 
joy, she was adding to her sorrow manifold. 

She was faithful to her resolve to speed the days 
by every efibrt, after they were gone ; but strive as 
she might, it seemed years since she held her boy 
against her breast, and felt his little arms clinging 
tight about her neck. She worked as long as she 


The Amber Star. 


35 


had any thing to do, mending the threadbare gar- 
ments, till stitches would do no more for them. 
Then when the days flew on, and the letter did not 
come, she tried to keep herself from too great anx- 
iety, by taking her child in her arms to wander in the 
sweet sunshine, under the pines in the villa Borghese, 
where she used to go with her husband, and sit and 
talk and read while he sketched, when first they came 
to Borne. The old city had grown dear to her in the 
six years of sojourn ; and if she loved it flrst for her 
husband’s sake, she had long since learned to love it 
for her own. She found a sad pleasure in revisiting 
all the dear old haunts ; and whether in some dim 
church, or among works of art, or out under the blue 
sky, she felt as if she were telling good-bye, not for 
herself only, but for him who was already gone. 

It was on her return from one of these walks, in 
which she had led her toddling child down the aisle 
of St. John Lateran, and seen her lift her baby hands 
up to the benign faces of the sculptured saints, that 
she came home to And that the looked-for letter had 
come. With a heart throbbing painfully, she took it 
to the balcony, and the gay and fashionable crowd 
drifted unseen, and the music flowed unheard, as she 
read the words that to her meant hope and comfort, 
or trouble and despair. 

As she opened the letter a draft fell to the floor ; 


36 


The Amber Star. 


and she gathered it up, and held it tight in her 
trembling hand, while her eyes swam with tears, so 
tliat she could hardly see the written words. But 
the draft itself was answer to her agony of anxious 
dread and fear. 

He had been successful. He had sent her the 
money to join him. Their way had been opened, 
and she knew by the intensity of her relief how 
intense had been her secret dread and fear. 

When she could read she passed hastijy over the 
account of the voyage from Genoa to Marseilles, and 
thence onward. The sea had not been in gracious 
mood, but the boy had proved to be a brave little 
sailor, a pet and favorite to all on board. 

The old house in Glasgow, filled with the gloomy 
old furniture of his grandmother’s time, had not 
changed since he was a boy, nor had the countenance 
and manner of his severe- visaged aunt. 

“ I felt as I approached the house,” he said, “ the 
old dread of her come back again, that I used to feel 
when on Sunday afternoon she sat me down to my 
catechism ; and it was not dispelled by her greeting, 
which was somewhat more severe than cordial. The 
only mitigation of its severity was the satisfaction 
she felt in being proved in the right. My life and 
art. had been a failure ; my mother’s fortune had been 
squandered ; I had come back as she had prophesied ; 


The Amber Star. 


37 


and tlie privilege of telling me so gave a tone of 
mercy to her voice. I tried to be cpiite frank with 
her. I told her of the unlucky fire which destroyed 
pictures which I was positive would have sold ; and 
she as positively expressed her ^ opinion that they 
w^ere probably better for burning than for any tiling 
else ; ’ and there, too, perhaps she was right. The 
boy, my comfort at every step, failed me here. She 
did not spare me in his presence ; and he watched 
.her suspiciously as she talked, emptying one by one 
her vials of wrath on my head — unconscious, dear 
little man, that I deserved them all. I could see that 
she was touched by his resemblance to my mother ; 
but he would not once smile upon her, and she soon 
decided that the laddie had the wayward and willful 
spirit of his sire. She said she supposed that I 
would rear him to be worthless, like myself, and I 
bore it ; for I remembered how good she had been to 
me, and I could see, too, that her old heart yearned 
a little toward the boy. 

“ She had an open warfare with him the very first 
night, for he would not leave my side to go to bed 
till I was ready to go ; while I, poor weak papa, had 
not the heart to force him. I let him sleep, therefore, 
in his chair, with his head on my knee, thus affording 
her an admirable instance of my bad management of 
the spoiled child. She took advantage of it, Esther, 


38 


The Amber Star. 


and told me that while she had no faith whatever in 
tlie success of my projects, or in me, she saw a hope 
for the family in my son. She was willing to 
relieve me of his support, to care for, to educate, and 
to provide for his future, so far as her means w’ould 
allow, if I would give him up entirely to her care, and 
remove all my own pernicious influence from him. 
On this condition, and this only, she would advance 
me money to go to America,* and would welcome you 
here into her home in Glasgow, and provide funds 
also for your coming to me. She urges that you 
come to her and spend some time, that you may 
judge of the advantage it will be to our boy to be 
her son and heir, and thus leave him here of your 
own free-will. She is a woman of singular, straight- 
forward honesty of principle and purpose, and she is 
quite sincere in her conviction, that thus, and thus 
only, can the precious boy be saved from what seems 
to her to have been the vagabond life of his father. 

“To all this, my dear wife, you know my heart 
has but one answer — one which yours will echo — we 
cannot give up our boy. Still, my judgment ques- 
tions, whether, having failed, to my shame be it said, 
to provide for him myself, I have any right to 
deprive him of the protection of another. 1 believe, 
if you come, you can so soften her views as to admit 
of his remaining, say, for a time, till I have proven 


The AivnjER Star. 


39 


to her my power to care for him myself. And after 
much thought, I have, in this extremity, left the 
matter in your hands. 

“ With great reluctance. Aunt Carruth has advanced 
me the cost of my own passage to America, and the 
cost of yours from Eome to Glasgow. I send the 
latter, to which I add a portion of the former also ; 
for I cannot bear that you should come to her so 
utterly destitute. I have reserved what will take me 
across, and provide some comforts.” 

Plere the wife for the first time looked at the 
check. It was larger than she had hoped — larger 
than it could have been, if Eoberto had kept any 
thing but a steerage passage for himself. She shud- 
dered to think what that might be, and chided her- 
self for the half-indignant feeling that had been 
aroused by his apparent consent to abandon his child. 
Tears filled her eyes as she read on : 

“ My aunt disapproves altogether of my taking you 
all to America, before I know how I am to provide for 
you. And though she seems hard and arbitrary, she 
means to be most kind in her request that you come 
at once to her, and make her house your home, till I 
am settled, and the way is clear. She urges my los- 
ing no time ; and as the steamer sails to-morrow, I 
have decided to take passage in her, and to leave Law- 
rie with Aunt Margery, till you shall decide whether 


40 


The Amber Star. 


he shall be left permanently, or shall come with you 
to me. I am the more anxious to hasten, inasmuch 
as I find that by this steamer I shall be in season for 
the autumn exhibition, and if you find you are not 
to come at once, send out the picture of the Holy 
Family. If it is bought, it will give the means to 
bring you to me, should you decide to bring Lawrie, 
in which case my aunt will not wish to help you fur- 
ther. My hope is that you wdll lose no time in com- 
ing to her, and that from her the way may speedily 
be opened for you to come with both our children to 
your loving husband, Koberto Donaldi.” 

When the letter was finished, the music had 
ceased on the Pincian ; the day had died into twi- 
light ; the child had fallen asleep upon her mother’s 
bed. The glow with which the letter had been wel- 
comed had gone from the reader’s face, and in its 
place was a great sadness, mingled with a great 
resolve. The dread and terror of waiting had gone ; 
but in its place the dread and terror that almost par- 
alyzed, while it called for immediate action, had come. 
The grinding poverty had been a hard fight to bear ; 
but here was something harder still ; something 
which she could but fear ; yet which she dared not 
fight. To give up her child — never, if she worked 
on her knees to keep him ! She sobbed bitterly over 


The Amber St Ait. 


41 


tlie sleeping babe, and when it woke, slie fed it, and 
prepared it for its night’s rest, caressing and kissing 
it as if she were loving it for two. She had borne 
up well till now ; but to-night the hunger for the 
boy was the wild mother-longing that would not be 
denied. She lighted the candle, and on her knees 
before the picture of the Holy Family, she watched 
the little figure, in his sheep-skin garb, until she 
could hardly forgive the painted picture of herself, 
that it did not loosen its arms from the child Jesus, 
and enfold, too, her beautiful, her precious boy. 
All other feeling seemed for a time to be swallowed 
up in love for him, and all desire to be lost in the 
longing to have him back again. 

Too restless to sleep, she passed the night in prep- 
arations for departure ; and ere the sunset of the 
next night fell, the studio waited a tenant, and she 
was traveling on her way. 


42 


Tub Amber Star. 


CHAPTEK YI. 

Roberto’s stay was short. It was his last night 
under the roof where most of his childish days w’ere 
passed. The somber stillness and stiffness of the old 
house had oppressed him as a boy, and there was 
nothing in its unchanged aspect to lighten in the least 
his present gloom. He had been out to mail his long 
letter to his wife, and to make a few final purchases 
necessary for his departure by the ship that was to 
sail early on the following day. His aunt had left to 
him the task of telling little Lawrie that he was to be 
left behind ; and, in the morning, he had taken the 
child with him when he went to examine his quarters 
on the steamer, and to arrange such comforts as the 
accommodation would allow. The child peered into 
the wretched steerage berth that was to make his 
father’s bed, and asked quickly, “ And where’s my 
little bed, papa ? — am I to sleep by you ? ” 

Then was the time to tell him he was to wait 
behind for his mother ; but the strong man, ready to 
face the terrors of the deep, had not courage to face 
the child’s pleadings and tears. And so the moment 
passed. 


The Amber Star. 


43 


When he came in that evening the child’s happy 
faith that he was going with papa was still unbroken. 
Eager in his sadness for any comfort, he looked for a 
little face at the window as he came up, and felt a 
pang of disappointment that the child was not watch- 
ing for him. The fire was burning on the hearth, 
the tea-table was laid for two, and Margery Carruth 
sat grimly knitting in a high-backed chair, with the 
tea-urn waiting by her side. She looked up as he 
came in. 

“ Late, Kobert ! I see you have lost none of your 
old habits ! Now to be punctual is with me a mat- 
ter of principle and conscience. I could not hope to 
accomplish any thing without it.” 

The man looked weary and dejected, and made no 
reply, except to say, wdth a quick glance about the 
room, “Where’s the boy. Aunt Margery? You may 
readily suppose I would not be away a moment longer 
than I must to-night.” 

She fixed on him a glance of severe composure. 
“ Lawrie is in bed and asleep, Eobert.” She had 
never condescended to give the Italian termination to 
either of the names : “ Kobert Donald was well 
enough,” she said ; “ indeed, it had a Scotch ring : 
but it was enough of itself ; it needed no nonsense at 
the end, to take the respectability out of it and give 
it a popish sound.” 


u 


The Amber Star. 


“ Asleep to-niglit ! when I don’t know as I shall 
ever have him another night of my life ! Why, Aunt 
Margery, that’s cruel ! ” 

‘‘ It would be cruel to the child to keep him awake, 
as you did last night. I gave him his supper early, 
and he watched for you till the lamps were lighted, 
and then went to bed without any trouble. I had 
only to speak once, and last night you know you 
could not make him go at all.” 

Kobert winced, for he could only too readily under- 
stand the boy’s submission when he found himself 
face to face with the iron will that looked out of the 
cold, gray eyes ; but he knew better than to contend, 
and silently took his tea. 

“ Where have you put the boy to sleep. Aunt Mar- 
gery ? ” 

“ In the large room yonder, and Peggy will sleep 
there, too, so that he will want nothing,” said Mrs. 
Carruth, nodding toward an apartment of which the 
door stood ajar, and which Robert too well remem- 
bered as a gloomy, solemn bedroom, where in his 
boyhood he had often been left alone to meditate on 
his frequent disobediences, after his little legs had 
tingled under Aunt Margery’s rod. With sudden 
resolution he rose, and took the lamp ; and, though 
Aunt Margery looked aghast at his presumption, 
marched across the room, entered the chamber, and 


The Ambek Stab. 


45 


gazed upon liis sleeping boj. The little fellow had 
rolled himself in a ball, like a kitten, one little hand 
upon his cheek, as if sleep had caught him in the act 
of wiping away a tear. 

‘‘ I have a great deal to say to you, Robert, and if 
you wake the boy I shall have no opportunity,” said 
Mrs. Carruth, appearing at the door-way. Robert 
stooped, kissed the little hand, and turned away, say- 
ing : 

“ Yery well, aunt, I will listen now; but you need 
not put Peggy here to-night ; I will stay with the boy.” 

But the ship sails at day break, you said.” 

“ Yes, and I had thought to go on board to-night ; 
but now I mean to stay liere, and I can slip away in 
the morning, early enough for the boat.” 

“ Now, Robert, if you leave the child to me, there 
will be no trouble. Why will you insist on making 
it harder for yourself or for me? If he does not 
wake until you are gone, I can comfort him ; but if 
you arouse him, you will be unkind to us all. Let 
the child alone, I say.” 

‘‘ I will leave him asleep, aunt ; God knows I do 
not want to see him grieve ; and I will slip away be- 
fore it is light. You need not fear ; only let me be 
near him one more night.” 

The child stirred in his sleep, and they took away 
the light. Had he dreamed it? did he hear his 


46 


The Ambek Star. 


father say he would go away and leave him ? leave 
him with the woman that frightened him so ? Sud- 
denly he awoke, and, sitting up in bed in the dark, 
began to cry, and call “ Papa,” ‘‘ Mamma,” in tones 
that proved Aunt Carruth was right in her estimate 
of his power of protest. 

Pobert would have had him out of bed in a min- 
ute, and would have sat and held him, with his pink 
toes turned to the fire ; but Aunt Carruth was too 
quick for him ; and as she went toward the door, she 
said, shaking her finger : “ Now let him alone, Rob- 
ert ; he will drop off again in a moment.” And she 
was right ; for, as she approached, and opened the 
door just enough to let her face be seen, the child 
saw it, brown false front, black cap, large-boned 
spectacles, and firm mouth, and he gave one cry, and 
plunged his curly head into the pillows. 

“ Lie still now, and go to sleep,” she said, as she 
approached, and drew the blanket over his shoulders. 

“ Papa ” came in a little smothered cry from the 
pillows. 

“ Papa is coming to sleep with you, if you lie still 
and go to sleep ; but if you cry, I shall not let him 
come.” 

He checked the sob that was about to burst forth, 
opened one eye, and took another glimpse of the face 
that was so dreadful to his childish gaze. She did not 


The Amber Star. 


47 


mean to regard him unkindly, or to speak harshly ; 
but to his childish imagination a woman who could 
put ‘‘ papa ” when and where she liked to bed, was 
possessed of untold powers. He kept still, stifling 
even his sighs, for O ! he wanted his father to come, 
and he knew somehow that he was just outside 
there by the fire; but that dreadful woman was 
between them. The idea that “ papa ” could come, 
or that he could get to him, unless she permitted it, 
never entered his sleepy brain. He lay still as a 
mouse, and Mrs. Carruth went out of the room with 
a triumphant visage. 

“ He's asleep again, as I said,” she nodded to the 
restless man, who was pacing between window and 
hearth ; and I hold you to your promise not to 
wake him in the morning. Peggy will prepare some 
breakfast, and leave it here on a tray. I shall tell 
you good-bye to-night, for I am not as young as when 
I took you to bring up, Robert.” 

Still she did not say good-bye. They sat and 
talked far into the night, and she spoke many words 
of warning and advice, and he listened patiently and 
endured it as best he could. 

There were no more sounds from the bedroom, but 
in there a little frightened child was straining his 
ears to hear every word that they might say. He 
heard much that was meaningless to him, but one 


48 


The Amber Star. 


thing he understood perfectly well : that his aunt 
wanted his father to go away and to leave him 
behind.” He would not scream, for this strange 
woman, the only woman he ever knew except his 
mother, would send his father away, and if he was 
good she would let him stay ; so he took his first 
lesson in self-control, and met alone in the dark the 
first trouble of his little life. By and by, in spite of 
all his fears, drowsiness came as a mercy to this anx- 
ious little heart ; and he slept so soundly, that when 
his father lay down beside him, he only waked 
enough to clasp his neck, and creep close and warm 
against his breast, and there slept on, till in the early 
twilight his father laid him gently on the pillow, and 
hastily prepared to leave him there alone. 

It was not till he was gone, and a lamp was lighted 
in the outer room, that the child awoke. He felt for 
his father’s arms. He was gone. Suddenly across 
his mind swept the dream, if it was a dream, of the 
night before. He remembered the face that peered 
at him from the door- way, and bent above his bed. 
He remembered his father’s promise, “ to go while 
he slept.” He remembered stifling a shriek with a 
great gasp — that he must not cry or scream. He saw 
the light in the next room ; he peered from his 
knees on the bed and saw his father’s form ; he 
dared not rush out, for in his terror he felt that she, 


The Amber Star. 


49 


Aunt Margery, would catch him, and hold him back ; 
but he slid from the bed, his mouth quivering and 
eyes wild with dread, and felt around in the dark 
for the chair upon which Aunt Carruth’s Peggy had 
hung his little clothes. How he struggled alone in- 
to the small trousers he never could remember. The 
socks and jacket were forgotten ; but he grasped in 
one hand his new shoes, bought only yester-morn, 
and crept to the door of the room. What he meant 
to do he could not have told ; conflicting desires 
filled his soul to escape and avoid Aunt Margery, and 
to reach his father’s side. He crept to the door, 
instinctively hushing his impulse to cry out ; he even 
held his breath and peered out of the darkness into 
the dimly lighted room. It was empty, but he heard 
a step in the hall beyond, heard the street door open 
and shut, and knew his father had gone. Quick as 
thought he darted through the room into the wide 
hall, silent and dark beyond. 

A great clock stood opposite the foot of the stairs, 
and between it and the door was just space in the 
corner for the little trembling figure to hide. Grasp- 
ing his shoes firmly in one hand, the other was feel- 
ing for the latch, when a movement above arrested 
his attention ; and turning his head, he saw a tall 
figure at the head of the stairs. Then all was quite 

dark, except where the ray of light from the room he 
4 


50 


The Amber Star. 


had just left fell midway across the steps; he felt 
rather than saw, as he dropped his hand, and crouched 
tremblingly between the clock and the door, that 
Aunt Margery was moving down upon him. 

Slowly and clumsily she descended the stairs, paus- 
ing just where the gleam of light fell on her figure. 
If he was afraid when he saw her in cap and wig of 
brown, how much more was she calculated to strike 
terror into his heart, with her white hair shining 
from under the ruff of her night-cap, her figure envel- 
oped in a short red bed-gown and quilted petticoat of 
black ? He gave one gasp of terror, and trembled in 
his hiding place as she came onward. 

“ How — now she was near ; in another breath she 
would see him,” — and — but no, she had passed on. 
She had not seen him ; she entered the room and 
looked about. All was right apparently, and her 
nephew was gone. She stole to the door of the bed- 
room and listened, and shut it then gently : evidently 
satisfied that Robert had gone leaving the boy asleep. 

Satisfied that all was well, she blew out the light, 
and then went slowly back again up the shadowy 
staircase. The little culprit could hardly see her, but 
he heard every step, and he even heard her sigh. 
Was it a sigh of weariness, or of relief ? Poor little 
trembler, he need not have feared. She had not 
been unkind to him, and did not mean to harm him. 


The Amber Star. 


61 


When she was out of siglit and sound, and he 
heard a door shut above, he lost no time. A few 
trials, and the latch was undone, the door open, the 
little prisoner free. 

Out on the pavement in the early twilight stood 
the little shivering figure, a gray cold sky above him, 
and the great brick walls shutting him in. Not a 
sound save the steady tramp of a man’s tread, away 
there in the distance before him ; no living thing to 
be seen, save one dim figure passing swiftly into the 
mist and dimness of the lower town. One eager 
look, and the next moment, after these heavy, reced- 
ing steps, patter, patter, on the pavement go the lit- 
tle bare feet running away with all their baby 
strength from warmth and food into a world of piti- 
less hunger and chill. 

The walk is slippery and cold ; but on they patter, 
softly and regularly, as the heart-beats in the breast 
of the strong man, whose every stride takes him far- 
ther away. If he would only look back — if he could 
only make him hear. “ Papa, papa ! ” he calls, ready 
to cry with his fear that he shall not reach him. La- 
borers come out from an alley, and go on their way 
to work, and they speak to him ; but he does not 
stop to hear. ‘‘ Papa, papa ! ” he keeps calling, under 
his breath. In and out, up and down the winding 
way he goes, until he sees his father come out upon 


52 


The Amber Star. 


tlie wharf. There is a rocking boat, and luggage, 
and many men near, and loud talk, and profane 
words, and splash of oars — but before the boy 
reaches the spot the boat is already many rods in the 
bay. 

Now, indeed, the little heart breaks ; and dashing 
his shoes, to which he had steadily clung, to the 
ground, his breast heaving with sobs, he stretches his 
arms after the boat. Just then a carriage drives 
down to the wharf, and several gentlemen, including 
two of the officers, are about to enter the ship’s boat, 
still waiting, when the little sobbing, half-frantic 
creature darts before them. 

“ Stand back, boy ; make way for the captain 1 ” 
says a sailor, putting out his hand. 

“ No, no, I am going too ; I’m going to my papa ! ” 
Before any one can seize him, he scrambles into the 
boat, and curls down on the bottom against the knees 
of the only gentleman that had taken his seat. 

“ Why, bless my soul, boy, what’s all this about ? 
where’s your papa ? ” 

“ He’s gone — he’s gone on the other boat, and they 
didn’t wait for me,” he repeated, in such anguished 
tones as went to the kind man’s heart. 

‘‘ What’s it all about, Dick ? ” said the captain to a 
sailor. 

“ Don’t know, captain ; saw the little chap around 


The Amber Star. 


53 


yesterday with his father, selectin’ quarters ; and 
there was a great mob and scramble as the boat 
pushed off just now ; maybe he was overlooked.” 

“ All right, then, my little man, we’ll take you out 
to the ship ; and you can bring him back Dick, if his 
father is not there. But if you are going to sea with 
me, you must dry your eyes, my little man ; sailor- 
boys don’t cry.” 

And Lawrie hushed at once, crowding little red 
fists into his wet eyes, and sat in the stern of the 
boat, trembling from head to foot with suppressed 
sobs ; yet with the childish mouth shut tight, and a 
kok in his face as if he had fought his first battle 
with life, and conquered. 

“ Whose child is this ? ” asked the gruff voice of 
the captain of tlie groups of cabin passengers gath- 
ered in the saloons or upon the deck ; but no one 
seemed to desire to acknowledge the woe-begone lit- 
tle waif, though they gave back pitying and curious 
stares in answer to the wistful glances he cast from 
under his lashes as they led him from group to group. 

At last, just as the officer, impatient at delay, 
called out : “No more of this nonsense, now ; the 
child does not belong here ; take him ashore ! ” a 
pale, dejected man, who had been standing aft alone, 
with his eyes fixed sadly upon the water, suddenly 
turned and faced the throng. At sight of his face 


54 


The Amber Star. 


the boy darted, like a wild creature, from the arms of 
the man who was leading him toward the gangway, 
and with a great glad shout ; Papa, mine own 
papa ! ” rushed to the arms of the bewildered man, 
clasping his neck so tightly, and shaking so with sobs 
and cries, that the father could not raise his head to 
answer the questioning looks of the crowd. 

“ All right ! ” shouted the officer on deck. And 
the sailors on the boat answered, “ All right, the lit- 
tle shaver’s got into port at last ; ” and before the 
father found words to explain the situation, the anchor 
was lifted, the ship began to move, and the boat that 
threatened to take the child from the father was left 
behind. 


The Ambee Stak. 


55 


CriAPTEE YIL 

It was an anxious journey from Leghorn to the 
Scottish coast. The ship sped well under the west- 
ern winds, but the mother’s longing thoughts out- 
sped the wind. 

Nothing but the heart-hunger for her boy could 
have overcome the timidity that shrank from meet- 
ing the aunt, with whom her Eoberto had been so 
long in disgrace. While she felt her kindness toward 
them all in the present crisis, yet her purpose was 
very strong to keep her boy. How she should com- 
pass it she did not know ; yet the pang of separation 
was so recent and so sharp, as to blind her for the 
time to the advantage which might accrue to the 
child from such a friend as Aunt Carruth might 
prove to be. 

They arrived earlier by one day than they were 
expected, and Esther went at once, with trembling 
lieart, to the address given by her husband. 

The old lady greeted her with a gravity and 
solemnity not without a touch of kindness and agita- 
tion. 

She conducted her to her chamber, the best room, 


56 


The Amber Star. 


one that had been honored by the presence of many 
a godly Scotch divine, and she bade Peggy to hasten 
with broth for the child ; and when they were alone, 
she came suddenly over to Mrs. Donaldi, who mur- 
mured “ how kind it was to receive her for her hus- 
band’s sake ; ” and bent down, till the sharp hard 
eyes looked straight into the blue and timid ones. 

“ My dear,” she said, sternly, “ I am a plain old 
woman — a hard old woman, so my nephew thinks. It 
may be true, but true or not, I cannot bear a lie. I 
did not mean to receive you into my home. I had 
secured a lodging for you, and had written a letter to 
meet you at the steamer. I leave you to read it now, 
and you can judge if I am not justly angry and right 
in feeling that I cannot have any thing to do 
with Kobert or with any thing that is his.” And, be- 
fore the bewildered guest could recover from her 
astonishment at the intensity of tlie old lady’s man- 
ner, she had passed out and closed the door. 

Alone, her boy not waiting to receive her — her 
baby carried away by Peggy out of her sight — worn 
with fatigue — crushed by the cruel unkindness and 
mortification — she was nearly frantic with distress. 
Her impulse was to rush after her aunt with a wild 
demand to be allowed to leave the house, when her 
eye fell upon the letter, which had dropped from lier 
hand upon the floor. It held first an outer inclos- 


The Amber Stab. 


57 


lire, containing a check, and an address with tlie 
announcement, “ that since it would be impossible to 
receive her under her own roof, lodgings named 
therein had been secured, which she might occupy at 
her pleasure at the expense of Mrs. Carruth.” 

There was another letter sealed, and marked, “ To 
be read at leisure.” Its words were few and concise. 

“ Since it had pleased her nephew to make an old 
woman his dupe, and to extract money from her 
under pretense of accepting her care for his boy ; 
and since he had taken most shameful advantage of 
her credulity and her years, she felt that she could not 
receive him or any of his own, without reviving her 
indignation and contempt. She hated a lie. She 
pitied his wife and babe, left destitute in a strange 
land ; she inclosed what would save them from want 
here, and would take them to America, but she must 
not be expected to meet them face to face. Any 
effort to see her would be unavailing. Robert had 
raised another barrier, only more insurmountable 
than all his previous conduct, and she trusted never 
to see or to hear of him again.” 

All this, and no word to say what crime he had 
committed ! 

Indignantly she gathered her shawl about her, 
descended the stairs, and entered the presence of 
Aunt Carruth. The old lady was standing by the 


58 


The Ambee Stae. 


window, spectacles on the nose, and before her stood 
Peggy, holding up to her gaze the little girl, who, 
fed and comforted, was smiling . up into the with- 
ered faces about her, a sweet May flower creeping 
into the breast of December. At the sound of her 
step the old lady turned, not quick enough, however, 
to hide the softness of her gaze, and Esther demand- 
ed hastily : 

“ Give me the children, please, and I will go 
away. I do not understand it at all ; I do not know 
what my husband has done,” and her voice broke ; 
“ but give me back my boy, and I will go.” 

“ Your boy ! your boy! ” said Mrs. Carruth, in a 
bewildered tone ; “ he is not here : do you not know 
that your boy is gone ? ” 

“ Gone where ? Good heavens ! what do you 
mean ? ” and she grasped the sideboard for support, 
while the little girl cried out at the sight of her 
mother’s white and frightened face. 

“ Gone with his father, child,” said Aunt Margery, 
coming near her, her face flushing with the recollec- 
tion of Robert’s deceit. “ Did he not write to you 
that he would do it? Did you not together send the 
child, that he might use him to deceive my foolish 
old heart ? He promised to leave him till you came, 
and then he stole away with him in the night, while 
I slept. He has taken him to America with him.” 


The Amber Star. 


59 


“ I cannot believe it ; I cannot believe it. It is not 
like Koberto to do it : there must be some mistake.” 

“ No, no, there is no mistake. I have seen a sailor, 
who saw the child on board, in his father’s arms. He 
said they came down to the wharf at early dawn ; 
that in the confusion the father was taken out to the 
ship in a different boat from the son, and he saw 
them both together again after they met on board.” 

“ I cannot understand it ; there is some mistake. 
Roberto has not made his life as you could wish, I 
know. He told me he was willful and troublesome 
in his youth ; but he was never mean and never 
cruel ! Think, he would not have been so cruel to 
me ! He sent me no word. I cannot account for it 
I can only beg you to let me follow quickly — to- 
morrow — to-day if I can, and let me get out of your 
sight until I can go.” 

It must indeed have been a stony heart to resist 
this broken appeal. Had she known all the weary 
struggle of the years just passed, she could but have 
seen that this sorrow crowned them all. But Aunt 
Carruth was not convinced, though she hid her 
impatience at Esther’s unbroken faith, and controlled 
her own indignation, half-ashamed that her vials of 
wrath should have broken on an innocent head. 
And when Esther, trying to lift the child to her 
arms, fainted dead away at her feet, she helped 


60 


The Amber Star. 


Peggy to lay her on the bed, and bent over her with 
all a mother’s pity in her face. 

When conaciousness returned Esther would have 
gone at once ; but she was hardly able to rise from 
her bed again till the day when the steamer sailed. 
And all this time Aunt Carruth kept mostly out of 
sight, and between them Kobert's name was never 
spoken again. If she could have seen the aged face 
leaning over the little Stella’s couch, tracing in the 
baby features the lineaments of the sister she had 
loved, she would have known the old heart held a 
store of tenderness as yet unspent. 

They parted without many words, Esther hoping 
the day might come when she could repay all, and 
the aunt relenting toward the babe, almost to the 
point of secret pardon for her papa. 

The voyage was quickly made. The second-class 
cabin was crowded ; the mother ill all the way, 
dropped helplessly upon the hands of the stewardess, 
who cared for her kindly, and sometimes took the 
child for an airing on the deck. Here the pretty 
prattler became an object of much attention; and- 
one day the stewardess said : “ There is a kind-looking 
Italian woman in the steerage, traveling all alone 
from Genoa to meet her husband in Hew York: 
why not let her have charge of the child ? She 
would do it for very trifling payment. She may 


The Ambek Star. 


61 


sleep here on the sofa, and can keep the little girl on 
deck during the day. You ought not to keep the 
child in this close cabin.” 

The poor mother, to ill to rise from her couch, 
reluctantly availed herself of this opportunity ; and 
the child, quite content with the woman, whose words 
and ways were like those to which she had been 
accustomed in Koine, for the rest of the voyage fod- 
dled about the deck, holding by her finger, and grow- 
ing brown and strong in the breezes and the sun. 

Wlien the steamer entered the harbor, and all the 
passengers crowded on deck, the feeble mother, who 
had hardly lifted her head all the voyage, came too. 
Timid and lonely, she stood amid the crowd of 
strangers as the boat swung round to the wharf. 
There was a hurrying, cheering throng on the pier, 
and the deck swarmed with happy home-comers, who 
now and then descried some familiar face, and gave 
back loving word and smile of greeting, impatient 
for the moment when these should be exchanged for 
kisses and clasping hands. 

In the bustle and confusion no one noticed how 
eagerly Esther’s sad eyes searched the crowd. ‘‘ Sure- 
ly Roberto would come ; she had written to the 
address which he had given her in Hew York. He 
would meet her and bring her boy ; ” and for the 
moment she was glad tliat the boy was here, even if 


62 


The Amber Star. 


the method of his coming was unrighteous. Excited 
and eager, she did not notice the exclamation of 
delight with which old Felicia, who had been stand- 
ing beside her, rushed down the stairs and away, 
with the little Stella in her arms, to welcome a 
swarthy Italian, who, as the boat swung around, 
stood where she could almost touch him from the 
lower deck. In an instant she missed her, and 
hurriedly descended to her state-room to see if Felicia 
had taken the baby there. As she entered the room 
a gentleman exclaimed heartily to another standing 
near : 

“ Why Horton, is this you ? How did you come on 
board ? ” 

“ I came down with the mail-boat to meet Wilson’s 
family, who crossed by this steamer.” 

‘‘Did you, indeed? but where’s Wilson? He 
sailed ten days ago, why isn’t he here to meet them 
himself ? ” 

“ Why, haven’t you heard ? poor fellow, he was on 
the Atlanta^ 

“ Well what of that ? isn’t she all right ? ” 

“ All right ! Why, my dear fellow, didn’t you 
know that she went to pieces off Hewfound- 
land?” 

“Ho — surely you don’t mean it. The Atlanta 
wrecked ? ” • 


The Amber Star. 


63 


“ Yes, a total wreck ; not a soul saved but a sailor 
or two. Poor Wilson went down with the rest.” 

They moved out of hearing, and the boat touched 
the wharf, and in the joyful rush that followed no 
one noticed that a white-faced woman dropped as if 
dead upon the floor of her room. No other room 
opened from this little corridor that led to hers. No 
passenger hastened back for missing parcels. The 
stewards were intent on “ speeding the parting 
guests ; ” so a long time elapsed before they found 
her, and still longer before they succeeded in restor- 
ing her to partial consciousness. Then one convul- 
sion followed another with such frightful violence, 
that an ambulance was called, and the mother was 
taken to a hospital, never having once aroused suffi- 
ciently to miss her child. The physician shook his 
head, baffled and doubtful over the curious condition, 
whose only merciful phase was that of delirium, 
which kept from the patient’s mind all recollection 
of her overwhelming accumulation of woes. 

In her delight at the sight of her husband, Felicia 
had not forgotten that the babe she held in her arms 
was not her own. • When the first greetings were 
over, she hastened back to the deck, now cleared of 
people, and there, where she had left the mother, she 
found only the bag and parcels which she had drop- 
ped beside Esther when she ran below with the child. 


64 


The Amber Star. 


She gathered them up, and took her place on the 
wharf, and waited patiently for the mother to come 
forth. At first her husband was full of talk and 
spirit, and waited with her ; but soon he grew tired, 
and insisted that she should go home with him, and 
leave the child to the care of the stewardess. But 
the stewardess had hastened ashore, and tiie poor 
woman, who had not been paid for her labor and care 
of the child through the voyage, finally consented to 
go with her husband, who said, “ You can bring the 
baby home, if you will, and then you will know the 
way back, and can return by and by with the child. 
I cannot wait all day for it.” 


The Amber Star. 


65 


CHAPTER YIII. 

The home to which Felicia was taken was not a 
very inviting one : a back room, high up in a 
wretched tenement house in Baxter Street. In filth 
and dirt, it was equal to any of the lowest haunts in 
the narrow streets of Genoa, and far more populous. 
There, at least, one could climb to the house-top and 
see the blue sky and sea ; here there was the gutter 
without, and men and women and children fitting for 
the gutter as fast as they could within. 

One room was a nest of rag-pickers ; one, a pawn- 
broker’s shop of the lowest class ; one, a whisky den ; 
and in the basement a man kept hand-organs to rent : 
and in a den behind his shop was a cage of chattering 
monkeys to be rented also, if the grinders needed 
additional attraction to entice the pennies from the 
children. 

Matteo, Felicia’s husband, had taken a room for 
his wife, with a closet opening from it, to be used as 
a workshop by himself, though she found too soon 
that he was not often there to occupy it. His busi- 
ness was repairing hand-organs, and he managed to 

earn enough from the shop below and from similar 
5 


66 


The Amber Star. 


shops to keep liis wife from starving, and himself in 
a chronic state of semi-intoxication. He had not 
wished her to come to him, and had told her that he 
could not support her here ; but her heart had noth- 
ing but him, so she saved up the passage money soldi 
by soldi, and wrote him she was coming, and would 
work and support herself after she should be here. 
It was a sorry home to which she climbed wdth the 
little fair child in her arms, and Matteo celebrated 
her arrival by drinking himself wdld before night. 
It was late in the afternoon when she went out to 
take the baby badk. She could speak no English, and 
wandered about without finding her way to the ship, 
and finally returned home foot-sore and bewildered 
and distressed. Then next day Matteo told Felicia 
he would go himself to the captain of the ship, and 
if the woman could not be found, would take the 
child to an asylum ; but when he returned, he was 
again too intoxicated for her to discover if he had or 
had not made inquiries ; and as the days went by she 
longed to keep the little comfort that slept so content- 
edly in her arms, and was secretly glad, when one day 
Matteo discovered, in the parcel the mother had left 
on deck, the remainder of what money Aunt Margery 
had given, and told her he had decided to keep the 
child himself, and that on no account was she to tell 
the neighbors the babe was not her own. 


The Amber Star. 


67 


Rejoiced at first, she repented her silence sorely 
enough, when the brute one day told her she had 
been idle too long, and that he would not keep the 
child unless she earned something. He had hired 
one of the heaviest organs, with a basket upon the 
top ; and strapping it upon his back, lie bade her 
take the child and meet him in Union Square, more 
than two miles away. In obedience was her only 
safety for herself and the child. He did not spare 
her curses, nor would he have withheld blows ; but 
from the first threats concerning the child had suf- 
ficed to keep her in subjection to his will. She was 
yet a stranger ; and when he placed her in a street 
car, she clasped the babe in her arms, conscious of a 
feeling of relief from his presence which lasted until 
she saw him put his organ on the front platform of a 
following car. Strangers looked admiringly at the 
little girl, and Felicia felt proud as if she were indeed 
her own ; but when on reaching the square, the man 
took them into a side street, and, the little two-year-old 
protesting with all the resistance of her baby-will, 
was tied into the basket, and the three began their 
weary rounds before the gay shops, the poor woman’s 
heart was almost broken with pity for the child, and 
shame for herself. At first the little girl sobbed and 
struggled, and stretched her little hands toward the 
nurse’s arms ; but Felicia kept close by her side, and 


68 


The Amber Star. 


the music and the moving crowd, the throngs of lit- 
tle children and the bright shop-windows, soon 
attracted her attention, and kept her amused and 
pleased. 

Matteo had not mistaken the treasure he had in the 
bright young face — beautiful in its shadow of waving 
hair ; and many a finely dressed lady paused to smile 
at the child, and touch her dimpled cheek with 
daintily gloved fingers, that left silver pieces, instead 
of pennies, in baby’s hands. 

It was the beginning of a new life for Matteo and 
Felicia and the child. It was far more profitable to 
him than was his work at mending organs, and he 
was, therefore, in better humor. 

Then he gave them stronger food ; and it was 
surely better for the woman than the close air of the 
garret where they lived, and the company of such 
people as surrounded them. She was allowed to be 
with the child, also, which was to her mind far better 
than leaving her to the care of the half-tipsy woman 
in the neighborhood, who kept a dozen little ones 
for their mothers, while the latter went out to their 
work. 

Sometimes, when Matteo wanted a longer carousal 
than he could compass in a night, the woman was 
sent out alone. Loud were the curses if she did not 
at night return the maximum sum. Little by little 


The Amber Star. 


69 


she acquired enough knowledge of the English 
tongue to make her way without him ; but his fears 
lest the new source of revenue be taken from him in- 
clined him to watch her very closely. This selfish 
fear was a protection to the little creature, to whom 
he gave angry words in plenty, but no blows. He 
knew that the child had such a hold on the heart of 
his wife, that she would only part with her to protect 
her. 

As for the baby, she slept much in her little wagon, 
and smiled upon the passers-by, who tossed pennies 
in answer to her pretty coquettish greetings, and 
rarely refused to drop silver in the little hand that 
threw them kisses as they passed. The scene of the 
operations changed often, and sometimes the tramps 
extended away from the city for a time. 

It was a sad day for little Stella when she grew 
too large for the farce of infant distress she had been 
called upon to play. For the little feet had now to 
do their own tramping, and the little hands to mn 
with Matteo’s hat, and collect the pennies from the 
crowd. Felicia was usually left at home on these 
days, for Matteo had found other work for her to do ; 
and all that both could earn was none too much for 
his spending. 

These were hard years for the child. The home 
was still dingy and desolate, and the food was often 


70 


The Amber Star. 


bad. Sometimes she .climbed at night to Felicia’s 
garret-rooms, over women, their neighbors in the 
house, sitting in a drunken stupor on the stairs. 
Kibald boys darted at her in the dark corridors, and 
she flew like a frightened bird, with fast fluttering 
heart to her room. Girls of her own age shouted and 
played with the boys in the gutter and on the pave- 
ments ; and girls a few years older flaunted cheap 
finery at the corners of the street. 

Her father, as she called Matteo, often halted at 
the door of the neighboring dram-shop after a day’s 
journey with the organ, and Stella made all speed to 
Felicia’s room, and rushed straight into her arms, 
glancing behind her, that he should not follow the 
caress with a blow at the poor woman’s face. Angry 
words fell full often upon them both in these days ; 
nor could Felicia’s care always save the child from 
the hand of the brutal man. If she was not agile 
enough in the crowds ; if she failed to smile sweetly 
in the face of the passers-by ; if for any reason the 
money was less than usual^the little girl shared his 
outbursts of temper with her nurse. The street gave 
her its share of rough words too. More than once 
had ladies sprung back from the outstretched hand 
with, “ Keep away ! don’t touch me, you dirty child ! ” 
More than once men pushed her roughly from the 
path ; and once she had only been saved from the 


The Amber Star. 


71 


wheels of a carriage by a news-boy, who laid her, 
muddy and frightened against a lamp-post, where 
the light showed him tears streaming over a dirty 
little face. 

“Don’t cry, sissy ! ” he said, wiping away the mud 
with the sleeve of his jacket. “I didn’t mean to 
hurt you ; but if I hadn’t pulled you all of a sudden, 
you would have been trampled to death.” 

Still she cried, and clung to his hand, and only 
stopped when Matteo came over the crossing, and, 
seizing her roughly by the arm, began to shake her, 
and scold her for going under the wheels. 

“ It wasn’t her fault ; you sent her ; you know you 
did,” said the boy, stoutly, looking indignantly at 
the man. “ You saw the carriage coming, and told 
her to run and get some money.” 

“ No, no ! ” began the man, making an angry dive in 
the direction of the boy’s head. 

“ You did, too, and I heard you; and you’re a 
.mean old fellow, to let a little girl beg money for 
you. Why don’t you go to work, like a man? ” 

But before he could speak further the Italian 
caught him by the collar, a little crowd gathered, 
and a policeman appeared on the spot just as the boy 
wrenched himself from the Italian’s grasp. 

“ What’s this ? what’s the row ? ” said the police- 


man. 


72 


The Amber Star. 


“ Nothing,” said a boot-black ; “ only Don Renzo 
has found another girl to light for ! ” 

“ I declare,” said another news-boy, ‘‘ he’s the bul- 
liest boy ; he’s always findin’ some poor little girl to 
pull out of the gutter, or to raise a row about. Why 
don’t you let the girls alone ? ” And then the boot- 
blacks and the chimney-sweepers laughed. 

“ He pulled me out from under the wheels and 
the horses,” spoke the child, rubbing her tearful 
eyes. 

“Yes I pulled her out,” said the boy, looking 
steadily at the policeman ; “ but that isn’t what made 
the row. Here’s her father sends her across this 
slippery mud, a little baby-girl like that, and then, 
when she almost breaks her neck, shakes her for fall- 
ing. That’s what’s the row I I’d like to shake him. 
He’s a lazy, drunken old thing ! I’ve seen him many 
a time as ugly as he could be to the child, and I’ve 
wanted to break his head, and I’m glad he knows it ! ” 
and the next moment the boy was on the outer cir- 
cle of the crowd, crying, “ ‘ Evening Post,’ last edi- 
tion, three cents ! Here’s the ‘ Commercial,’ ‘ Post,’ and 
‘ Express ! ’ Great fire in Liverpool ! First-class 
murder and suicide in the Bowery I ” 

The crowd laughed, as did the policeman also ; and 
the Italian seized the hand of the child, and marched 
sullenly down Broadway at a pace that kept the little 


The Amber Star. 


73 


girl’s legs flying as they never flew in any hour of 
childish liberty and play. 

As he passed a corner a saucy voice cried, “ ‘ Ex- 
press,’ extra, two cents, latest news, tragedy in high 
life ! Italian father runs the legs off his infant child ; 
only two cents ! ” And the child answered the twink- 
ling eyes of the mischievous boy with a grateful 
smile, that took any sting from the frown which the 
Italian bestowed. Poor Stella went climbing up the 
stairs that night, crying as if her heart would break ; 
Matteo had been sullen all the way home, and had 
grasped her hand so tight that it hurt her as she 
trotted by his side ; and he gave her a blow as he 
took the money from her, that left a mark on her 
arm from which not all Felicia’s kisses could take the 
purple stain. 


74 


The Amber Star. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Felicia was sent out with the organ the next day ; 
and when they saw the lad who had helped her, little 
Stella’s face grew glad. 

“ O, mamma, there he is,” said the child ; “ the 
boy who pulled me from the wheels.” And when 
the boy came toward her and emptied a handful of 
sweetmeats into her apron, Felicia said, “ Grazia, 
grazia ! ” and the lad ran away, amid the jeers of his 
comrades, having satisfied himself that the . child was 
in better hands than her father’s, at least for that one 

i 

“ Goin’ to ’dopt the little girl, Don ? ” asked a 
sooty-faced boot-black, seated on his box, waiting for 
a “ shine.” “ Make a capital thing for the papers : 
‘ Don Renzo, great paper merchant, ’dopted helpless 
little orfin ! ’ Better git a bald head and gold spec- 
tacles, ef you’re goin’ to open an Orfin Asylum, 
Don.” 

And the bo^^s laughed, and Don laughed with 
the rest, as he answered : “ It is mean enough that 
there isn’t an Orphan Asylum, where they can be 
kept from the street. It’s easy enough for us boys ; 


The Amber Star. 


75 


but I tell you it's mighty hard for a little girl like 
that one, and I’m goin’ to fight for ’em every time I 
see one in the hands of a father like hers.” 

Some laughed, some sneered, and one boy cried 
out : Bully for Don and his orfins ! ” 

As Don moved on about his business a boy, consid- 
erably larger than himself, exclaimed ; “ I’d like to 
know who Don thinks he is, a-bragging round here. 
Why, the other day he jest knocked me down, for 
snatching a bouquet for my button-hole out of Biddy 
Waters’s tray, at the door of the theater. Yes, and he 
paid Biddy for the bouquet, too — what d’ye think o’ 
that ? I think I’ll be even with him yet. I’ll give 
it to this little gal, the first chance I get.” 

“ You daresn’t say it before him — ha ! ha ! ” gig- 
gled another boy. 

“ I daresn’t. Jack ? You’ll see ! ” 

But just then, Don’s clear voice sounded around 
he corner : “ ‘ Tribune,’ ‘ Times,’ and ‘World,’ ” and- 
away they went in search for customers, without 
waiting to prove to him their courage. 

Still, opportunities were not lacking for the harder 
boys of the street to torment the little girls, and 
even to tease and worry Stella, who was as much 
afraid each time as if she had never seen them- be- 
fore. Matteo wearied of his organ tramps after a 
while, and Felicia could earn more with her needle:; 


76 


The Amber Star. 


so lie set Stella new tasks, in which his own share 
was to sit smoking his pipe at some point in the 
street, and watch her as she plied her little trade. 
She had her little bunches of glass-headed pins, “ live 
for a penny ; ” but these were only that she might 
not be arrested for begging. Under the cover of 
the offered pins she was instructed to beg, and he 
concocted one story after another, of “ starving 
mother,” “ sick sister,” or “ dead father ” at home, 
and bade her rehearse them in a beggarly whine, and 
then seated himself near, that he might watch the 
passers-by. He carried sometimes a tin dinner-pail, 
as if on the way to or from his work ; or if snow was 
on the ground he bore a shovel, but when asked to 
clear a walk, he invariably “ had just got a job in the 
next street.” 

One cold afternoon in October, when the pitiful 
face failed to arrest the hurrying feet or to touch the 
hearts of the passers-by, the brute beckoned to her 
with his pipe; and supposing it was time to go 
home, she followed him down an alley, where he 
questioned her as to what she was to say. “ Why 
don’t you tell them your father is dead ? ” he asked. 

“ Because he isn’t,” she replied. 

Yes he is, too,” he answered, with an oath ; “ and 
if you don’t say so. I’ll thrash you to-night.” Then 
he took what money she had, broke in two pieces a 


The Amber Star. 


77 


cake which a child had given her, and ate the larger 
piece himself ; took oS her ragged shoes, and thrust 
them into his pail ; and then sent her forth again, 
telling her, if she wanted shoes, to ask the ladies 
and gentleman for something with which to buy 
them ; and if she did not bring back money enough, 
he would send her out bare-footed until she did. 

‘‘ You don’t get any thing, because you don’t want 
any thing ; and if I keep your shoes, your feet wont 
grow to the pavement.” 

Poor child ! It was stinging weather, and she was 
very cold, and very much afraid of this man, who 
was never quite sober enough to be kind ; yet Feli- 
cia had told her to sell her pins, but to speak only 
the truth ; and no one would buy the pins, and she 
would be beaten if she did not tell the tales, as her 
father commanded her to do. She ran on, her tears 
of distress fast growing into angry sobs of temper 
against the cruel papa. During many years he had 
used her for his gain, and now for the first time 
she rebelled. She did not know what to do ; but of 
one thing she was sure, she would not obey. Gayly 
dressed ladies passed. Mechanically she lifted her 
pins in their faces as they hurried on, all the time 
knowing that he watched her, and all the time throw- 
ing defiant glances in his face. 

lie rose to follow her, and she seized a stone at her 


78 


The Ambee Star. 


feet, and threw it at him with all her force. It fell 
far short of his head, but she turned and fled as if the 
little bare feet had wings — up one street and down 
another, out of the crowded avenue into an almost 
silent row of fine residences, where, out of breath, 
she ran against a lad about thirteen years of age, 
swinging a pair of new bright skates in one hand, 
while with the other he caught her, and saved Jier 
from falling, and laughed merrily down into her 
frightened, tear-stained face. 

“ Why, what a little whirlwind ! ” he said ; “ what 
are you running after so furiously ? ” She dropped 
her head without a word, ashamed and ready to cry. 

“Barefooted, too, this frosty night! What would 
my mother say to a little girl without shoes ? ” 

Suddenly the child grew conscious of her bare 
feet, and tried instinctively to curl her red toes under 
her tattered gown ; but he said : “ Look here, little 
girl, there’s half a dollar ; run right down into Sixth 
Avenue and buy yourself a pair of shoes. No, wait 
a minute ; I don’t believe that’s enough. Girls’ 
shoes must cost more than that. I’ll ask mother, and 
get you more,” and he darted up the steps of a 
handsome house, and disappeared within the door. 
She stood bewildered, grasping the half-dollar, watch- 
ing the closed door, when, suddenly, with a whoop 
which she knew full well, Jack Brown, the boy 


The Amber Star. 


79 


whom Don had thrashed, and two or three of his 
rough companions, were down upon her. 

“ Here she is. Bill ; come on, Tom ! Kow, little 
gal, jist give us the money you’ve got to-day. We’ll 
take it instead of your daddy to-night ; for we want 
‘ backy,’ and an oyster-stew dreadful. Give it up 
quick, or I’ll take yer home ; and yer dad’ll lick yer 
when yer git there.” 

But the spirit of resistance to the father seemed 
to have extended to all of his sex ; and when they 
took hold of her to search her pocket, she kicked 
and scratched and bit like a little fury. 

It was only an instant — the door re-opened, and a 
light boyish figure sprang down the steps, and in a 
moment was in the thick of the fray. 

“ Come on, Jack ; by my life, there’s Don ! ” said 
Bill, hastily. 

Tom started to run ; but Jack, now thoroughly 
angry, and more than ever resolved to conquer the 
child, had already grasped the hand that clung to her 
half-dollar, and at the same time dealt a blow at the 
youth, who was trying to protect her, which sent 
him reeling against the stone steps. “ I’ll fix you, 
and teach you how to meddle with my affairs ; ” and 
he raised liis boot to kick the almost insensible boy, 
when a strong hand was laid on his throat, and a 
twist at his collar made him suddenly loosen his hold. 


80 


The Amber Star. 


‘‘ Let go, Don — let go,” he howled ; but Don did 
not let go. He held him by the collar and punished 
him well, in the heat of his passion, only stopping 
when Stella, who stood crying near, exclaimed : “ O ! 
do help the poor boy ; do help the poor boy ! ” 

Then he loosed his hold on Jack, who made the 
best of his chance to escape, and turned to the pros- 
trate figure on the pavement. 

He was quite insensible ; and while Don was look- 
up and down the silent street for help, Stella said : 
“ I know where his mamma lives ; in here : ” and 
she ran up the steps, rang the bell, and hastened back 
to the side of the insensible boy. 

The door opened, and a gentleman looked out up- 
on the scene. 

“ There’s a boy out here, who has had a fall,” said 
Don ; “ does he belong here, sir ! ” 

In a moment the gentleman was at his side. 
“ Kalph ! Kalph ! my poor son ; what has happened ? ” 
“ I don’t know whether he fell and hurt himself, 
or whether some one hurt him,” said Don, gently. 
“ Let me help you to carry him, sir.” 

They raised him gently, and bore him into the 
house. A colored servant went up the beautiful 
staircase, and opened the doors before them, and they 
laid him on his bed. And the little bare-footed child 
followed after, with wide-open eyes, from which the 


The Amber Star. 


81 


wonder was fast chasing away the terror and 
dread. 

But Don saw only the white face of the boy, and 
the white face of a gentle lady, who came weeping 
and leaning on the arm of her maid from another room. 

“ What is it ? What has happened to Ealph ? ” 

“ He has fallen on the steps, dear,” said the father. 
‘‘ I think it is only a faint.” 

“ Jack pushed him,” said a little voice at the foot 
of the bed ; and they turned and saw two bright 
eyes, and a little scared, troubled face. 

“ Are you the little girl for whom he came to me 
for money ? He said you had no shoes.” 

The child’s head dropped down, and her eyes filled 
with tears. 

“ Let me go for a doctor, please ; ” said Don, see- 
ing how useless was the effort they were making to 
restore consciousness to the boy. 

The father drew him aside, and they hurried down 
stairs together, the gentleman giving him a physi- 
cian’s address. 

As Don turned the first corner of the street a 
policeman laid his hand on his shoulder, and said, 
“ You must come with me, sir ! ” 

“ And why ? ” asked Don ; “ I must go for the 
doctor for a gentleman ; his son has been hurt.” 

“ Yes, and who hurt him ? ” 

6 


82 


The Amber Star. 


“ I don’t know,” said Don ; “ I was not in the 
fight.” 

“Then who pounded Jack Brown to a jelly, I 
should like to know? I met him running away 
from you, you young rascal ; and he said you had 
been stealing money from a little girl, and had near- 
ly killed a boy who was helping him to defend 
her.” 

“ What a lie ! Let me go for the doctor please. 
The child is in there ; you can ask her who hurt the 
boy.” 

“ Not I ; you go to the station-house to-night, and 
to-morrow’ll be time enough to prove your inno- 
cence.” 

“ Well, let me stop at the doctor’s on my way, and 
then I’ll go at once ; it’s just in the next street.” 

This was granted, the message given, and in the 
house such was the anxiety about the injured lad 
that no one noticed that the boy did not return. 

When consciousness revived, .and Kalph opened his 
eyes, he said to his mother, looking anxiously about 
her : “ Where’s that little girl ? Did those bad boys 
hurt her ? ” 

“No, no, she is here, and safe. She has gone 
down to supper, my boy.” 

“ You will take care of her to-night, mother ? ” 

“Yes, Kalph. Don’t try to talk. She shall be 


The Amber Star. 


83 


cared for, I promise you.” And Stella was confided 
to the housekeeper’s care. The servant bathed her, 
and put her to bed in a room that seemed to her like 
a dream of luxury and warmth. She tried to keep 
awake, to look at the pretty walls, and at the pictures, 
and the open fire, and the birds, rolled up like little 
feathery balls, asleep ; but not even beauty and pleas- 
ure can, keep slumber from childish eyes. 

When the new day broke over Lindsay Mansion 
the voices were hushed, and the treads on the 
carpets softened, for Ralph, the son and heir, was 
very, very ill. The physician said there was an in- 
jury to the spine, the result of the fall on the stone 
step. It might prove fatal ; it might make him lame 
for life ; only time could tell. The doctor broke it 
gently to the father, and at the same time advised 
that the knowledge of the true condition be withheld 
from the invalid mother. 

“She must not try to nurse him, Mr. Lindsay.” 

“ Then, who can do it ? ” asked the father. 

“ I cannot say ; but unless you know some one bet- 
ter, I have an excellent person, well trained in the 
hospital service, a gentle lady, who has seen better 
days, and is especially tender with children ; and I 
would give her charge of a child of my own.” 

“ Then bring her here, and God bless you ! ” said the 
agonized father, wringing the doctor’s hand. 


84 


The Amber Star. 


CHAPTER X. 

As the doctor was about to depart the housekeeper 
came through the hall leading little bare-footed 
Stella by the hand. The doctor looked at her curi- 
ously, “What is this?” said he, putting his hand 
under her chin, and lifting her face, so that her lashes 
no longer veiled her eyes. 

“ It’s the little girl Master Ralph was for helping, 
sir,” said the woman, with a courtesy “ I was to 
ask the master what is to be done with her.” Mr. 
Lindsay’s face looked sad and perplexed enough. 

“ I’m sure I don’t know ; what does his mother 
say ? ” 

“ Well, I don’t like to ask the mistress ; she’s very 
bad this morning, she is ; and I don’t really think 
she would like to have her in the house, she being 
the cause of Master Ralph’s hurt, you know.” 

Suddenly the long lashes lifted, and the tears 
sprang to the eyes of the astonished child. 

“ I didn’t do it ; no, indeed, I didn’t hurt the 
pretty boy. Jack did it, wicked old Jack.” 

“ And who is Jack ? your brother ? ” 

“ Xo, no,” stamping her foot impatiently ; “ Jack’s 


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85 


bad. Jack struck me, too, and Don beat him,” she 
added, triumphantly. “ Don will kill him, I hope.” 

“ Who is Don ? ” asked Dr. Smith ; “ and who are 
you ? ” 

“ Madre Felicia’s little girl ; and I sell pins.” 

“ Where do you live ? ” But suddenly the child’s 
whole manner changed to one of fear and dread. 

“ I live with papa Matteo, but I don’t want to go 
home ; he will beat me 1 ” 

“ Don’t be frightened, child ; you shall not go 
home yet. I think,” added the doctor, “ the first 
thing will be for me to take her home in my coupe. 
My wife will know what to do with her. She’s a 
manager at the Five Points Mission, and I would not 
wonder if she might be cared for there.” 

So, wrapped in a comfortable shawl, her hands 
filled with cakes, the six-year-old child, who, bare- 
footed, had struggled in the streets last night, went 
bowling about the town in the corner of Dr. Smith’s 
eoupe^ gazing from the window, in all the pleasure of 
a new experience. He did not go directly home ; 
but in his turns suddenly they came out upon the 
Sixth Avenue, at the point of her contest with her 
fiither the day before. There he sat, tin pail in one 
hand, and old jacket upon his arm, his red nose red- 
der now than ever, and his swaying figure giving 
token of an early dram. She shrank back in the cor- 


86 


The Amber Star. 


ner of tlie carriage as they whirled by, and the 
wicked desire for more stones to throw came again to 
her lieart, and she clenched her little fists, and her 
breath came hard. 

The doctor called at the Child’s Hospital in 

Street, and left her sitting in the carriage while he 
entered the institution. Stella could see through the 
window that he talked with a pale, sweet-faced 
woman, dressed in some soft material of gray, and 
knew that he was telling her of the wounded boy — 
‘‘ Would he say she did it ? that she was the cause of 
it ? She wished she could hear.” 

As he came out, he said, “ Go as soon as you can, 
Mrs. Darrell ; I know you cannot well be spared 
here ; but his life depends upon your care.” 

“ I’ll do my best to save him, sir,” she answered, 
gently, and the door closed, and the carriage rolled 
away, and then to his own house — the morning visits 
were done. Nothing could exceed the kindness of 
the doctor’s wife and that of his little girl, in some of 
whose clothes Stella was soon arrayed. 

Then, after luncheon, the lady took her little charge 
with her to the mission in Park Street. They left 
the fine mansions of the wide, silent avenues behind 
them, and drove on by the shops of the Bowery, 
passed the solemn Egyptian front of the Tombs,” 
to the region where great warehouses fronting the 


The Amber Star. 


87 


streets, hid from the casual gazer the swarming tene- 
ment-liouse population, filling every narrow street 
and alley in the rear. 

Stella knew the prison called the “ Tombs.” She 
had often passed her hat in the crowds that gathered 
when the black van came up, and the prisoners were 
brouglit forth to be taken to Blackwell’s Island, or to 
the prison at Sing Sing. She knew her home was 
near ; but she said never a word when they stopped 
before the mission in Park Street. The Five Points 
Mission was a large brick building, in the lower part 
of which were the superintendent’s ofiice and resi- 
dence, a chapel for religious services, and rooms for 
the Sunday and week-day schools. Above were 
rooms for the ladies, upon whose direction depended 
the conduct of the work, and where they came to cut 
and prepare the garments that clothed annually hun- 
dreds of the needy children of Kew York. The rest 
of the building was divided into apartments, in which 
temporary homes were made for widows and chil- 
dren, until provision could elsewhere be secured. 
With one of these families the little girl was placed, 
till they waited to see if any one would claim the 
child. 

Unfortunately for her, the excitement of the day, 
and the exposure, barefooted, to the cold of the last 
evening, brought the little wanderer to her bed. 


88 


The Amber Star. 


She was not very ill, but ill enough to be inactive, 
and in this enforced quiet of the body the brain and 
soul began their conscious life. Until very recently 
she had been like other healthy children, unconscious 
of the misery that surrounded her life. She loved 
Felicia, she was afraid of Matteo ; but she did not know 
that for any childhood there was a lot without fre- 
quent curses, and occasional hunger and cold. Sad 
enough it is, but none the less true, that there are 
multitudes of children who count tliat a happy day in 
which no one’s anger toward them comes to the sting 
of blows. Very good people say, therefore, “ O ! 
they don’t mind it, they are used to it, and it does 
not hurt them as it would hurt my child or yours.” 
God knows ! Certainly they are less ready with their 
cries and tears, and prize each hour’s relief from posi- 
tive misery as a positive joy ; yet the pitiful hurt to 
the little souls, the hurt in the lack of love, only He can 
measure, who said, “ Of such is the kingdom of heaven.” 

Surely Stella had loved to be out in the sunshine, 
and to see the people in the street. The first wish 
of her life during the days had been to get back 
to Felicia at night. Tlien came to her the first out- 
side kindness she knew, and she had learned to search 
tlirough the days for the sight of Don ; and had felt 
the first stir of conscious wickedness in her hate for 
Matteo. How she had seen two beautiful homes, 


The Amber Star. 


89 


warm and bright, and with roses even in the carpets 
on the floor. She had always wanted a rose, ever 
since she flrst saw them in the windows of the flor- 
ists, and she had never yet had one in her hand. 
She had been on the soft cushions of a carriage, she 
had seen her flrst glimpse of a new and w^ondrous 
world. And she lay there, while the fever burned 
in her cheeks, and dreamed her first dream, and bore 
her first real pain of heart. 

The words of the housekeeper had sunk like poi- 
son into her mind ; and, when nervous and weak, she 
hid her face in her pillow and cried. It was not for 
Felicia, or Don, or the carriage, or the roses, or even 
for hate of Matteo, her wicked old papa. It was 
that the beautiful boy’s mother had thought that she 
“ had caused his hurt.” She understood it now, and 
she saw that if he had not given her the money, he 
would not have been touched by Jack. It had been 
a wretched childhood ; but of all the drops of bitter- 
ness in her cup, this was the first one whose taste 
her childish lips could not escape. 

For the first time shyness came upon her ; she 
grew timid and hid her face when ladies came in and 
looked at her; lying there battling with the low 
fever that kept her scarcely able to creep about, and 
unable to join the children in their wmrk or play. 
But she heard them sing in the chapel ; and some- 


90 


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times, when no one was nigh, her little voice would 
pipe out the hymns, in tones so sweet and clear that 
the listeners stopped to hear, and the superintendent 
of the Sunday-school awoke to the fact that the shel- 
tering mission was a song-bird’s cage. 

Soon they persuaded her to sing in the school ; and 
when the time came for the missionary to make his 
annual autumn trip to the country, to speak in the 
churches in behalf of the work done by the mission, 
he decided to take four or five little girls with him. 

He selected those who had no homes ; and if they 
could sing, he let them sing in the service of the 
Sunday school, wherever he might present the cause 
in which he was interested, always carefully avoid- 
ing any allusion to the personal history of these par- 
ticular children. Usually they were very glad to go ; 
but when they told Stella she was included in the 
singers to be taken, she begged so piteously to be 
allowed to stay behind, that the kind man had not 
the heart to insist. It was hard to persuade her to 
go outside of the mission walls, for the only time 
she had gone from Park Street into the thoroughfare 
she had seen her father Matteo at the door of a 
drinking shop. She had run from him as if her life 
depended upon it, and he had not seen her, for he 
was nearly stupefied with drink ; but before she 
reached the mission a thought seized her, which she 


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91 


put into immediate action. She had longed daily to 
see Felicia, and had not dared to go, lest Matteo was 
there. Now he was away drunk, and he would not 
probably go home till night. She would go and see 
Felicia, and he would not know she had been there. 

She knew her way to Baxter Street, and was not 
long in reaching the door. She darted in, passed the 
organ-grinder’s entrance, and up the many flights of 
stairs, as fast as her little legs would go. The door 
was ajar ; she pushed it open, the room was empty, 
the furniture had been removed, and spiders had 
woven a curtain over the dingy panes. She stood in 
blank distress, ready to cry, as the truth dawned 
upon her that they had changed their home, that 
perhaps she should never see her mamma more. 
She remembered all her kindness, and began to be 
ashamed of the fear that kept her so long away. 

As Stella turned sorrowfully toward the steps she 
heard Matteo’s voice away down at the door. His 
utterance showed his condition ; “ My little girl is 
here. Jack Brown saw her come in ; he told me ; ” 
he said to a woman whose door stood open below. 

“ No, she isn’t. I have been sittin’ here all the 
time ; I haven’t seen her.” 

I’ll go up and see,” and he staggered against the 
railing.” 

“ No, you wont ; you’re too drunk. I’m not goin’ 


92 


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to have you break your back on my stairs. Come in 
here and take a glass of whisky to steady your legs, 
and then go.” 

And the poor idiotic creature went in, tempted by 
another glass, and the woman closed the door behind 
him, and down, like a frightened bird, the light feet 
of the child fluttered from step to step. 

She neared the closed door, stopped, waited, and 
darted back — he was coming ! — no, it was only a 
creaking step ; and she darted past, gained the 
street ; and, without stopping to look back, ran till 
she reached the door of the mission. She cried her- 
self to sleep ; and when the kind woman who had 
her in charge tried to soothe her, she said : “ I will 
go to the country ; I shall never And my mother.” 

“ Did you think you could find her if you stayed.” 

‘‘ Yes, yes, and I tried. I watched the house every 
time I went out, and I did not dare to go till to-day, 
and now she is gone. I shall never see her again ; 
and I don’t want to stay here, for papa Matteo will 
hurt me and make me beg.” 

They soothed her sobbing, and promised her she 
should go away to some nice home, where no one 
should do her harm ; perhaps there would be roses 
and green trees, and real birds, instead of the little 
whistling things tied to a string which the men sell 
at the corner of the streets. 


The Amber Star. 


93 


So she was comforted, but disappointed in the 
hoped-for change, for she was too late. 

Already the missionary had started upon his au- 
tumn tour among the farmers of New Hampshire 
and Vermont, who often sent him cartloads of pota- 
toes and barrels of apples for winter distribution, or 
made contributions toward the Thanksgiving dinner 
of the little ones, whose homes were too poor to 
provide the annual feast. 


94 : 


The Ambee Stae. 


CHAPTER XL 

The morning of the second Sunday in Xovernber 
rose clear and cloudless. The gold and crimson of 
the foliage had changed to russet and brown, and 
the road down which Loren Wilde drove to church 
was carpeted with rustling leaves. 

Hannah found herself rheumatic as the winter 
frosts came on, and Loren was going to church 
alone. He tied his horse in the old brown shed, 
as his fathers and grandfathers had done for gen- 
erations back, and took his seat with his neighbors, 
w^aiting quietly for his share of the bread of life. 
He was not much changed, but his hair was whiten- 
ing young, as his mother’s did, and he was not 
ruddy, but grave and quiet and strong. A stranger 
was in the desk. Five little girls sat in one of the 
front pews, and the stranger spoke, and these chil- 
dren sang, and the words, less than the music, 
pleaded the cause of the little ones, far away in the 
great city, orphaned, or worse than orphaned, tossing 
on the waves of poverty and temptation and sin. 

Hard, knotted knuckles were seen to creep into 
eyes unused to tears; and when the pleading was 


The Amber Star. 


95 


over men gave quite generously, touched by child- 
hood’s woe, whose life-principle had been to get and 
to keep all they could. Money came hard to these 
hill-dwellers ; and nobody knew how hard it was 
‘‘to pay it out.” Indeed, when the preacher pleaded 
for homes for the children, some would even more 
cheerfully have given these — for in that case the 
work would be “ upon the women-folks, and the 
livin’ wouldn’t count” — than to pay the reluctant 
dollar which did “ count.” Still, no one was moved 
to the point of offering a destitute child a home, 
unless it were Loren Wilde, who gave his horse the 
rein all the way up the hill, and rode with his eyes 
on the ground, seemingly wrapped in thought. 

After supper, at which he told Hannah about the 
sermon, he retired to his mother’s room, from which 
he issued at sunset, and took his seat with his sister 
on the porch. 

Then with a manly directness, characteristic of 
himself, he told her he wanted to talk to her seri- 
ously about his life — about their mutual life — of 
how little it gave to them, and of how little it did 
for other people. He talked of the folly of yielding 
their lives to a farm, that returned them only food, 
and to which they had no heir. He told her he felt 
bound to do something for others, or at least for 
some one poor creature who had no home. He said 


96 


The Amber Star. 


he had been thinking of the pastor’s words, and 
thought it would do them both good to bring into 
their home a little boy or girl to be reared as their 
own. 

At first she fiew into a passion, which fell like 
water on a rock. He simply waited till it passed 
by, and went on from the point in the conversation 
where she had begun. 

She saw no reason in the world why the shiftless 
part of the world should prey upon the industrious. 
Let people work, then they would not starve. 

They talked long, and not always calmly; but he 
alluded to the days, surely coming, when she could 
not, with her knotted fingers, do every scrap of work 
of every kind; when her swollen ankles would not 
take every step, and asked if it would not be better to 
have, then, a willing, loving daughter to whom she 
would have taught her ways, than a servant. 

Then she seemed to feel the force of his words, 
and foreseeing that when that hour came Loren 
might take a wife, she could see it might be better 
to take a child. So, at last, with many objections 
and protests, she consented, and Loren, who had 
scarcely said “sister” once since his mother died, 
somehow brought in the word to-night. Before 
morning she repented, but Loren was not to be 
moved. “ He would abandon the farm, do any thing 


The Amber Star. 


97 


rather than live this useless life ; ” and at last, when 
he went to the village, he left her muttering to her- 
self, “ that if they got hold of his principles, he was 
‘sot’ as the dead, and, after all, may be ’twas as well 
to let him have his way in this thing, to keep him 
from something wuss.” 

He called at the parsonage. Tlie missionary and 
the children had already gone ; but he was not to be 
dismayed. He took an unusual holiday, and went 
to New York. He visited the bookstores, and re- 
plenished his shelves with the latest works on the 
subjects that he loved. He bought a new dress for 
Hannah, and found himself looking in a window at 
toys and candies for the imaginary little girl, though 
he knew well that no such indulgence would be 
allowed. Sunday afternoon he was at the “ Five 
Points Mission,” and his great heart nearly broke 
when he saw the multitude of little folk — four hun- 
dred at least — who had no homes, or worse than none; 
who came on Sundays to be taught, and on week-days 
to be clothed and warmed and fed. He felt like 
gathering a lapful up in his arms, or taking a cart- 
load of them home to unlimited nuts and apples 
and bread and milk ; and it was well Aunt Hannah 
had specified “only one,” or he would have gone 
out from the mission like the “ piper of Hamelin 

Town.” 

7 


98 


The Amber Star. 


When he looked at the children, he could no more 
choose than a boy of five could choose one plum 
from a pudding. He knew Hannah wanted a strong 
and hearty girl, one who knew nothing of her parent- 
age, one who could begin at once with the “ chores,” 
and be readily taught to work ; and he, Loren, 
wanted some forlorn, helpless little being to ‘‘ make 
much of,” and to love. 

Utterly bewildered by the multitude of faces, he 
sat in great perplexity, till a silver-haired lady, in a 
pause of the exercises, asked a tiny child of seven 
years old to sing. She came to the front of tlie 
school-room, and stood so near his chair that he 
could have touched her ; and when the song was 
over, unconscious of the eyes upon him, he reached 
out his arm and drew her to his side, and looked 
into her eyes. 

“Look up, my child,” he whispered; “I want a 
dear little girl to go away with me into the country, 
where the apples are red on the trees. I want her 
to be my little girl, and to live with me. Would 
you like to go ? ” And the child dimpled and 
blushed; and then, looking long and questioningly 
in his face, first crept close to his side, and stood 
perfectly still and content. He kept one little hand, 
and the exercises went on, when the teacher, think- 
ing the child might be receiving too much atten- 


The Amber Star. 


99 


tion, said, “You had better go to jour seat now, 
Stella.” 

The child looked up in Loren’s face, but never 
stirred. The graj-haired ladj drew near, and whis- 
pered : 

“You had better go to jour seat now, mj dear.” 

“ I should like to keep her. I should like to keep 
her alwajs. I came here to choose a little girl, and 
this child is the one I want.” 

It did not take long to satisf j the Mission of the 
advantage of such a home as Loren’s for the child. 
'Nor did he like to wait long to take his treasure 
awaj. From the time thej started the child never 
wavered in her utter content. For the first time in 
her life she was in the presence of a soul that reallj 
loved to be good to her. It was touching to see 
how utterlj she resigned herself to his care, and be- 
came unmindful of the new scenes through which 
she passed, in the new world of kindness in which 
she was enwrapped. 

It was like a happy dream, and thej were chil- 
dren together. The dream was not broken until, 
the journej over, thej stood face to face with Han- 
nah, who drove down to the railroad station, behind 
the old white horse. Then the chill and change 
that came over the child were hardlj less felt bj the 
man. Hannah did not mean to be hard or cold, but 


100 


The Amber Star. 


they were all embarrassed ; and in her heart she was 
not pleased. The child suddenly seemed very small 
to Loren, who remembered that Hannah wanted a 
girl old enough to “ save her steps.” 

Loren had not expected to be met by Hannah, 
but curiosity for the moment had conquered her 
rheumatism. She looked at the child, and said : 

“Well, Loren, I must say this just beats me! 
You’re away off to Hew York to find me a help, 
because I’m gettiri’ old and have got the rheumatism, 
and you’ve brought back a baby for me to bring up ! 
That’s like a man for all the world.” 

“Well, never mind, Hannah,” said Loren, sooth- 
ingly ; “ the little feet will trot for you, I’m sure, and 
she will be a big girl before we know it, and the 
little hands will learn to work;” and he threw his 
arm protectingly about the child. That was too 
much for her ; she could have borne Hannah’s hard 
words — she had heard such before ; but at the kind 
tone, at the thought that some one protected and 
excused her, she hid her head on his shoulder and 
burst into tears. Hannah said no more, but her look 
and sniff were suggestive of her discontent. 

Alas for Loren Wilde — if he had hoped an era of 
happiness had come to the farm ! Alas for Stella — 
if she dreamed she had come from the Hades of evil 
tempers into a heaven of love ! A new world. 


The Amber Star. 


101 


indeed, opened to the child — a world of forest and 
field, of wild fiowers and mosses and ferns — a world 
of swelling hills and grassy slopes and majestic 
mountains ; a world of sky and space and light, and 
all things to delight the eye of a child. And under 
all this, how unconsciously her soul wakened to a 
sense of beauty and grace ! How she loved the. 
out-of-door world ! so that she was happy when any 
service or errand took her to the fields. Loren 
understood it in her as he had done in his mother, 
and showed his recognition by giving her many a 
walk on Sunday afternoons, gathering the lichens 
and the fungi and the ferns. Kindly he planned 
many an errand for the sunset hour, when he knew 
the light upon the hills would shine into her heart 
and be refiected from her eyes all through the even- 
ing time. 

He loved the girl, but he was often far from glad 
that he had brought lier home. He knew that she 
had hard times^with Hannah; but he soon found that 
he helped her best by not seeming to know; and 
when Hannah was impatient, Stella’s greatest com- 
fort was in her fancy that Loren was in the field, 
and could not hear. This helped her to be brave, 
though bravery was sometimes hard ; for Hannah, 
though she ceased after a while to complain to Loren, 
was slow in reconciling herself to the child. She 


102 


The Amber Star. 


allowed her to call her aunt, but she soon reduced 
her name, which Felicia had called Stellina, to Lina, 
saying : “ My old tongue wont twist into any thing 
furrin not for nobody.” She was not cruel, and 
rarely angry ; but she treated the child as if she 
would be doing evil if not watched, and as if Satan 
laid in wait for idle hands. So, as she was always at 
'work herself, the best way to keep Lina under her 
watchful care was to keep her at work also ; and 
the steps the little feet took in a day were almost 
as many as in the organ-grinding days : to and fro, 
to pick up chips, and to bring in wood, to feed 
chickens, to hunt for eggs, to pick blue-berries in the 
field and raspberries by the wall, and to run to 
bring the cows from the pastures — the last a delight 
which Loren gave her, for it took her out at sun- 
set, and the beauty rested the child as it often had 
rested him. 

When indoors, the dishes were to be washed, 
and the table to be laid, the little btd to be made, 
the fioor to sweep, and even to scrub — surely there 
was no chance for idleness; and if it was not a help 
to Hannah, it was because she was too proud to own 
it even to herself. 

The only variation to Lina’s life was that of the 
district school, where, summer and winter, she was 
allowed to go. Then she had the daily and weekly 


The Amber Star. 


103 


journals ; but the crowning privilege of her day was 
access to Loren’s books, and the pleasure of reading 
in his mother’s room. And when he read there 
with her, and selected and directed her studies, she 
felt her comfort was complete. All the more she 
prized it because the seasons were so rare when 
Hannah did not find something to interrupt their 
work. 

Here, Lina, help me to pare these apples to- 
night; I want to make the pies before you are up 
in the morning ! ” Come, Lina, you’d better be 
knitting these socks for your Uncle Loren than 
wearing out his eyes over that fine print ! ” — and 
like suggestions were sure to come just as they were 
specially comfortable together. Still, in her own 
way, Hannah grew fond of the child. She would 
not have owned it, or allowed Loren to see it ; and, 
but for her old jealousy of any thing Loren liked, 
she would have liked the girl herself. Still, years 
went by, and the child was growing toward woman- 
hood, and Aunt Hannah had never once kissed her 
or spoken a really tender word to her since she came 
to the house. 

Upon one thing she insisted from the first — that 
no mention of the previous life of the child should 
ever be made in her hearing ; and to no one of her 
neighboi-s had she ever told more than that Loren 


104 : 


The Ambee Stae. 


tlioiight they ought to take a girl to bring up to 
help her, therefore they did so. Whence she came, 
and what she was, people might guess to their 
hearts’ content — no one w^as ever told. And though 
Lina remembered perfectly well much that they 
would have her forget, yet she obeyed honestly 
Hannah’s wish, and was as silent as the rest. 


The Ambek Stab. 


105 


CHAPTER XII. 

A CHANGE had come to Loren’s fortune by the 
addition of Forest Farm, which his mother’s brother 
had left him when he died. It was on the hill 
beyond the town of Wiltonby, not more than three 
miles away, if one went by the paths of the fields 
and the woods, though much farther by the wind- 
ing road.' It was a fine farm, and a much finer 
house, than the Wilde dwelling. It was the place 
where Loren’s mother had been born, and a home 
where he could have taken a wife, had it not come 
into his possession some years too late. Lina liked 
the spot, and welcomed any errand that necessitated 
a journey there. 

One day, when she had been sent there by Aunt 
Hannah to take a message to the old woman who 
was left in charge of the Forest Farm, she found a 
carriage at the gate, and a gentleman waiting at the 
door, who raised his hat as he stopped to let her pass. 

“Can you tell me if I shall find Mr. Wilde, the 
owner of this place, within?” 

“Hot here, he lives at Wiltonby, some miles away. 
I am going there ; can I take a message for you ? ” 


106 


The Ambee Star. 


“Ko, I must see him personally. I have been 
looking, by order of our physician, for a house in 
which, during my absence abroad, to leave my little 
daughter, and a lady who for years has liad charge 
of my invalid son. The air here on these hills is 
what we want ; the scenery is lovely ; and they told 
me at the Profile House that this place was vacant, 
and possibly might be rented. Do you think the 
house could be seen?” 

“I can direct the housekeeper to show you the 
house, sir, and you will find my Uncle Loren at 
home.” 

Before night the gentleman had seen the owner of 
Forest Farm, and it was arranged that the lady should 
take possession of the house at once, and be joined by 
the son, who would remain during the summer. 

“ Bather queer,” said Hannah, “ to send his 
daughter and invalid son with a nuss, and take 
himself off to Europe? Where’s their mother?” 

“Dead, I think he said; the woman who is to 
have the care has been with them many years. 
Then the young man is not ill, only delicate from 
an injury received years ago. He has been well 
enough of late to go on with his education with 
his tutor, and he wants to ride and to shoot, and 
to live an out-of-door life, as the best means of 
keeping the strength he has gained.” 


The Ambee Star. 


107 


“Will tlie three live there alone?” asked Hannah. 

“ Ho : the tutor will be there sometimes, and may be 
a friend of the young man ; and Mr. Lindsay himself 
will return for September and October.” 

This was a long story for the usually silent Loren 
to tell ; but he was anxious to leave Hannah nothing 
to criticise. He was glad of the change, though he 
hardly knew why. Perhaps he hoped it might open 
into something that would widen the life for his 
child. If so, he was gratified, for the coming of the 
strangers was the beginning of a new era for her. 
The lady who was to be installed mistress of Forest 
Farm soon came, and when Aunt Hannah found 
there were some changes to be made, she said she 
“ did not want to have any thing to do with city 
folks’ notions. If every thing was to be turned up- 
side down, and new ‘ fixin’s ’ put in, why, Lina 
must see to ’em — she had enough to do at home.” 

So Lina was dispatched to talk to Mrs. Darrell of 
the needful arrangements, and she walked over one 
day, when the early daisies were just opening by the 
path, and the forest trees were mossy with the burst- 
ing buds. 

The farm took its name from tlie wood that 
crowned the hill, making a background for the white 
house, with its rambling out-buildings and wide pi- 
azzas, around whose knotted posts in summer the 


108 


The Amber Star. 


morning-glories twined. Across the valley and over 
the hill and through the forest the young girl went, 
busy with her thoughts, which were all of the past, 
and not of the new life toward which she uncon- 
sciously moved. 

The wood -path led down to the hill behind the 
house, and as the girl emerged from it she saw, 
standing on the piazza, a lady with a gentle but 
somewhat sorrowful face, apparently watching the 
wide valley that spread before her eyes. 

She did not see Lina till she stood by her side, 
when, turning suddenly, she gave a nervous start, 
and the color went out of her face, leaving a deadly 
pallor, lighted by the saddest eyes — so they seemed 
to Lina — that she had ever seen. 

“ I startled you, dear lady,” said the girl ; “ I am 
sorry ; let me get you some water.” 

“ITo, no; it was nothing,” she said, grasping Lina’s 
arm as she was about to go for the water, and, by a 
great effort, controlling herself. “ I was surprised ; 
I was not expecting to see any one, and you came 
upon me so suddenly from behind ! ” 

“ I am so sorry ! ” the girl repeated, and blushed 
painfully. “I am Lina Wilde; and my Aunt Han- 
nah sent me to go through the 'house with you, and 
to aid you in putting it in order, if I might.” 

Yes, yes ; how very kind ! I was so foolish to be 


The Amber Star. 


109 


startled ; bat your face is so surprisingly like a face 
that I knew in my jmuth that I was overcome by it. 
Then you are Miss Wilde’s niece — the daughter of 
Mr. Wilde? Come in, and let me make you rest; I 
am quite ashamed of my agitation.” 

Then they talked together of the country, and the 
healthful breezes from the hills, and, after awhile, 
together went over the house. 

“ I am going to put some curtains here,” said Mrs. 
Darrell, “and cover these old sofas and chairs with 
chintz, and hide the mantels, and drape the beds 'vvrith 
bright colors ; but these are not things for which I 
care to give the landlord any expense.” 

“ I’m sure he would be quite willing,” said Lina, 
wishing she could say as much for Aunt Hannah, 
whose stormy denunciation of extravagance she al- 
ready heard as in imagination she told her what the 
“city folks” wished to do. 

“But that is not right, Miss Wilde; this house is 
furnished quite comfortably as it is, and I prefer to 
get the things myself ; but I would be so grateful if 
your aunt could spare you to come and sit with me 
in the afternoons. We would make them together, 
and you could help me in making the place bright 
and pretty ; and sometimes, perhaps, you would read 
to me.” 

“ O, I should like it so much ! ” said the girl, on 


110 


The Amber Star. 


wliose spirit the quiet ways and the gentle, refined 
voice had a soothing effect. She had all a young 
girl’s susceptibility to a new atmosphere, and this 
was one in which she felt she should be quite at 
home. 

So she told Hannah, who said: “Well, I’m glad 
if she wants nothing but work. I s’posed Loren 
would have to pay out for no end of nonsense. You 
can go, after your work is done here; but if she 
treats you as if you were a hired girl, let her know 
very quick that we don’t calculate to have no girl of 
ourn work out.” 

“ O no. Aunt Hannah, she is not like that at all ; 
she even said that I might read to her while she 
sewed ; and when 1 said Aunt Hannah sent me, she 
answered: ‘So you are Mr. Wilde’s daughter?’ I 
said nothing ; for you told me you did not wish me 
to answer any questions about my parents.” 

“ Ho more I don’t,” said Hannah, fiercely. “You 
belong here now, and it’s nobody’s business where 
you belonged before.” 

“ But, aunt, is it honest ? is it not a lie ? ” 

“How, who are you, I should like to know, that 
will teach me what’s a lie ? We took ye and fed and 
clothed and eddicated and tried to make a decent 
woman of ye, and now what possesses ye to want to 
go and disgrace us by telling what gutter we found 


The Amber Star. 


Ill 


ye in. Go away ! I haven’t asked nothin’ of ye but 
to hold your tongue! If ye can’t do that, ye better 
never ’ave come. There now ! I’ve put my foot 
down once for all ! ” 

The girl raised her hand deprecatingly. She had 
had many a hard word and box on the ear, but she 
had never seen the Wilde temper so aroused before. 
She was just ready to start when it burst upon her 
head, and she went out into the air breathing fast, 
and trying hard to keep back the tears till she should 
reach the shelter of the woods. 

Once there, she threw herself upon the carpet of 
yellow leaves, and, hiding her face against a rock, 
she wept and almost sobbed aloud. Before the par- 
oxysm passed she heard a step, and, looking up, saw 
Uncle Loren looking down upon her in sorrowful 
surpi’ise. 

“ O, uncle, I didn’t mean you should see me ; I 
couldn’t help it,” and she sprang to her feet ; but he 
stood perfectly still and looked at her, with such 
trouble in his eyes as if, for the first time, he com- 
prehended that she was wretched. “ Don’t look so, 
uncle, I wouldn’t grieve you for the world ; but once 
in a while I feel as if I couldn’t wait any longer to 
cry. All girls do, I suppose.” 

“ But what do you cry for ? what hurts you ? ” 

‘‘ J^othing now, uncle ; I am happy with you.” 


112 


Tfie Amber Star. 


“ But what did hurt you ? ” 

“ O, I can’t tell. Don’t ask me — please don’t ! ” 

“ Yes, I want to know.” It was seldom he spoke 
so gravely, and she dropped her eyes in silence. “ I 
want to know,” he repeated, gently. 

“ But you do know, dear uncle, and I cannot put 
it in words. You must know how hard it is to be 
fed and clothed and educated by charity, for which 
you can make no return ; and must know how mean 
I feel to pretend before strangers to be your child, 
when I know I came, as Aunt Hannah says, from 
the gutter, and have no parents except a drunken, 
brutal father and a poor degraded mother.” 

“ But you need not pretend.” 

“Aunt Hannah says I must.” 

“ And I say you must not,” he replied, sternly. 

“ May I say, then, that I am not your daughter ? ” 
“ God knows, I wish I could say that you are, and 
in his sight you are ; you grow morbid, my child, 
sometimes, and feel you make no return for our 
care. Do you know, Lina, that you are the com- 
fort and joy of my life ; that it has nothing except 
what you bring into it ? Sometimes I am very sorry 
I took you, for I cannot do for you as I would ; 
but you do more for me by your love, and for 
Hannah by your work, than we can ever do for 
you.” 


The Amber Star. 


113 


“No, no, nncle, don’t say that;” for she was 
ashamed to have forced him to words, when she 
knew he would have liked so much better to have 
been understood without speech. “ I must be very 
ungrateful, but I am often so oppressed by thinking 
of all that is given to me to which I have no claim 
that I long to go to work and truly to care for 
myself.” 

“ W ell, you may try it, if you feel so, Lina.” 

“ How, uncle, how ? and when ? ” 

“Next summer I will let you teach our district 
school, of which I have the charge. It will let you 
feel that you are helping little children, and the 
money you earn by teaching you may use as you 
like.” 

“ May I ? O, uncle, may I ? ” and she drew near, 
and finished by a whisper in his ear. 

lie stroked her hair gently, and the tears sprang 
into his eyes. 

“Yes; you may spend it for your mother, if we 
can find her, or for the Mission where the little chil- 
dren are.” 

“ O, uncle, I am so glad ! I have thought of it so 
much, and wished that I knew some way to help the 
children that are left behind to grow up in dreadful 
ways, while I am here;” and she gave his arm an 

affectionate squeeze, and laughed through her tears. 

8 


114 


The Amber Star. 


“Well, girlie, we will work together, and see if 
we can’t help some of the little ones out of their 
troubles,” he said. “ ^^^ow we are to get such a good 
rental from Forest Farm, I can do something more 
this year.” 

“Have you been doing for them. Uncle Loren, all 
these years?” she asked, surprised. 

“Well, a trifle every year; but now you shall help, 
and we will do it together ; ” and he added, bending 
lower, “We wont mind much if auntie should scold 
sometimes ; down at the bottom of the heart there’s 
a good deal of love frozen up. Perhaps, by and by, 
the spring will come. Don’t you think we’d better 
be patient and wait?” 

She hung her head and the tears came, but this 
time tears of shame. How many years he had 
waited for the spring to come, and he did not grow 
angry or discouraged or rebel. He did not seem 
to feel that it was necessary to sweep off the face 
of creation whatever was hard to bear. But she, 
too often of late, had let her distaste stir her to 
anger, and had felt toward Aunt Hannah almost as 
when she gathered the stones to throw at Matteo’s 
head. 

She went on through the forest, lifted up and 
strengthened. How wise the man had been, in his 
instinct in teaching, he did not know himself. He 


The Amber Star. 


115 


had found her sore, rebellious, sensative, and with 
good cause aggrieved. He did not nurse her griev- 
ance, nor arouse her resistance or resentment, but 
applied for her soreness the help he had tested full 
often for his own. He set her to work to heal the 
wounds of others, and by stimulating to action the 
noble purpose he silenced the ignoble complaint; 
and yet how gladly he would have shielded her 
from every trial, great or small. 


116 


The Amber Star. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

After this there were blessed days at Forest Farm. 
Mrs. Darrell seemed to welcome the companionship 
of the girl, and, finding how eager she was for books, 
let her read to her during some of the sunny after- 
noons. The house became lovely, under the tasteful 
touch of their united hands. Before April passed 
into May, Mr. Beech, the tutor, came. He was a 
clergyman whose health had forced him from the 
preacher’s to the teacher’s desk. He had been a 
classmate of Mr. Lindsay, and in his hands had 
been the education of his son. With him he had 
traveled from time to time, and to his judicious care 
was- due largely the fact that the youth was now 
well on in his college career. Gentle as he was 
wise, he was interested at once in the young girl, 
who told him she was, next summer, to make her 
first experiment in teaching; and he proposed that 
she should study with him for the month that would 
elapse before his pupil should arrive. 

To this Uncle Loren consented, though Aunt 
Hannah grumbled sorely. But Lina only rose the 
earlier and worked the harder, and when the work 


The Amber Star. 


117 


was done, saddled the old white horse with her own 
hands, and went away by the path over the hill and 
through the pines to her books. After Loren’s talk 
with her Hannah’s sarcasms lost their sting, and 
she ceased to blame herself for her delight in Mrs. 
Darrell’s motherly tenderness and love. 

It was a wonderful May-time to the girl, and in 
her dual life on the two farms she was happier 
than she had ever been before. But one afternoon, 
early in June, when she came over for her lesson, 
she found the bright little sitting-room deserted. She 
made her way to the kitchen, where Abigail said 
Mrs. Darrell has gone for errands to Franconia Vil- 
lage, and Mr. Beech had received a letter asking 
them to meet young Mr. Lindsay at the Profile Sta- 
tion, where he was expected to arrive that after- 
noon. They told Abigail to ask Miss Lina to wait. 
She was glad the pupil was coming, though she felt 
an instinctive misgiving about her future lessons, and 
thought she would probably now be forced to get on 
alone. 

Turning it over half - sorrowfully in her mind, 
she decided to leave a note for Mrs. Darrell, and 
to return, when Abigail burst upon the piazza 
with. 

My goodness ! Miss Lina, here’s a young feller 
come all alone on horseback over from Bethlehem. 


118 


The Amber Star. 


He’s come to visit Mr. Lindsay, and thought he’d 
leave the cars there and ride over the hills. My 
goodness, what am I to do?” 

“ Why, nothing, Abigail ; don’t be flurried ; the 
others will soon be here.” 

“ But I don’t know what room Mrs. Darrell wants 
made ready for him. She didn’t say nothin’ about 
expectin’ him, and I s’pose he’s hungry as a bear ; 
them city folks is allers hungry enough to eat a body 
out o’ house and home, and I’m keeping my good 
vittles for supper.” 

“ O, never mind, Abigail, I’ll help you about the 
room, and you can get him something without dis- 
turbing the supper.” 

‘‘But I don’t want to,” said the maiden, with a 
frown. “Mrs. Darrell’s got every thing baked up 
new, and I do begrudge one er them new pies, 
and ” — 

“ Hush,” said Lina, warningly, for a quick step 
sounded on the grass, and the next moment, hat in 
liand, his face bright with half-hidden merriment — 
for lie had heard every word — approached a broad- 
shouldered young man, with a frank smile, that was 
of itself an apology for intrusion. 

“ I am unexpected, I see,” he said, “ though I 
thought to And Mrs, Darrell at home. I will wait 
for her here, with your permission.” 


The Amber Star. 


119 


A quick flush passed over Lina’s face, a strange 
choking sensation filled her throat ; for, changed as 
he was, she recognized, in the broad-shouldered, well- 
clad young man, the news-boy who had stood be- 
tween her and her brutal father, the “Don,” who 
had saved her and her precious half-dollar, from 
which she had not parted yet. 

She tried to speak, but the words did not come ; 
and, as if to relieve her embarrassment, he chatted 
on : “I could not resist the impulse to come across 
the hills, for I have never in my life had a holiday 
among them. So I left the train, and dined at Beth- 
lehem ” — this in a louder tone, with a smile toward 
the door, behind which Abigail was watching him 
through the crack — “and rode over. I shall ride 
back to-morrow" morning, and leave the horse, and 
walk home.” 

“ Is it your first sight of the mountains ? ” asked 
Lina, in a voice hardly yet under control. 

“Yes, and Ralph would take no refusal this time; 
so I have run away for a month of rest.” 

“ Only a month ? ” 

“ Only a month for me. Ralph stays all summer, 
poor fellow, and I hope it will do wonders for him 
in the way of health. He has the noblest soul in 
the world ; but it has been a struggle to keep it in 
the body, ever since he was hurt.” 


120 


Tee Amber Star. 


‘‘ What was it that hurt him ? ” asked the girl, 
iunocentlj ; “ his father told my uncle he was in- 
jured.” 

“Well, it is a long story, and my blood always 
boils when I tell it ; and it will seem incredible to 
you, brought up here among the hills, that such 
misery and wickedness could exist in the city; but 
Ealph” — Suddenly he paused, her face was pale, her 
eyelids fluttered wearily; she did not need to hear 
the tale, she knew it all. She was marveling at 
herself that she could have been so idiotic as not to 
know before. This name “ Lindsay,” how could she 
have forgotten it ? “ Ealph,” surely she had known 

that name; and this was Ealph — the boy who had 
been hurt in trying to save her from abuse that 
night so long ago. It was Ealph’s home in which 
she passed the night ; that seemed now like a dream. 
It was the face of Ealph’s father which had haunted 
her with its familiar look. It was Mrs. Darrell 
whose countenance she had seen shining through the 
hospital gate. And he, this young man of whose 
noble mind and heroic soul she had been hearing so 
long — whose persistence in study, despite acute pain 
— whose patient endurance of his fate in the long 
battle with weakness had made him so beloved by all 
who knew him — this was the boy who owed his life 
of suffering to his defense of her. 


The Amber Star. 


121 


“You are frightened — you are faint. Let me 
bring you something.” 

“ No, thank you. I was faint a little, but it has 
passed away, I have often felt so before.” 

“Well, I startled you by making you believe the 
story I have to tell was more horrible than it is.” 

“ No, no, that was not it, indeed, indeed. I know 
the story.” 

“ O ! yes, Mrs. Darrell or Mr. Beech has told you ; 
they must be always talking of it. Well, then, you 
can imagine how dear he is to Mrs. Darrell. She 
nursed him through years when he could hardly 
walk, for his spine was injured ; and she was a real 
mother to him, both before and after his own mother 
died. His mother was ill at the time of the accident, 
you know, and she has since died, leaving Balph and 
one little daughter, who has been in Mrs. Darrell’s 
care, and they have all learned to love her, so that 
they cannot let her go ; and so she is one of them 
now for all time.” 

“ And you, did you say you did not know her ? ” 

“ I have seen her ; but I do not know her well. 
If you have heard the story of Kalph’s accident, I 
must tell you that I am Donald Lawrence, the little 
ragamuffin of a newsboy that they called ‘ Don.’ I 
suppose I was as much of a scamp as the rest of the 
chaps that live in the streets, and lodged at the News- 


122 


The Ambee Stak. 


boys’ Home ; but I wasn’t the fellow who hurt Ealph, 
though they arrested me for being in the fight, and 
brought me before the police-court, and, on the testi- 
mony of the little girl’s father, a drunken scoundrel, 
who said I had robbed his child in the street, and on 
that of Jack, the real offender in the scrape, who 
swore against me, I was sent to the Island for three 
months. But Mr. Brace — you know all about Brace 
— well, he’ll be monarch over a kingdom of boys in 
heaven, I am sure, who will all be eager to march 
under him to save the naughty boys left here below. 
He had been my friend at the Hewsboys’ Home — 
had been like a father to me from the night I took 
refuge there, and he thought it strange that I should 
have done so disgraceful a thing, after all his kind- 
ness and care. So he never gave it up till he got to 
the bottom of the affair. He found Jack, he found 
the Lindsays, he found the truth, I don’t know how, 
and, bless his heart, he came down to the Island him- 
self to welcome me back again to their midst. But 
I am telling you about myself, when I meant to tell 
the story of my friend.” 

“ O ! go on, I beg you will go on,” said Lina, hold- 
ing her breath. 

‘‘Well, of course, I was a sort of a hero among the 
hundreds of boys after that; and this circumstance 
enabled me to become a leader among them ; and, 


The Amber Star. 


123 


thanks to my love for my benefactor, I wanted to 
lead them to be men, to lead them away from mean 
words and ways. The experience at the Island, a 
place where a prison and an insane asylum stand 
side by side, both filled by victims of vice and crime, 
the sight of the depths to which men and women 
may fall, acted upon me like an inspiration. I felt 
from that time that I knew from what Mr. Brace 
wanted to save us; and from that day I’ve been 
fighting under his banner, and working under and 
with him with all my heart.” 

But, you are ” — she hesitated and paused. 

He laughed. “You mean I am not a newsboy 
now? Ho, not now, thanks to Mr. Lindsay, who, 
choosing to consider me a martyr in the cause of his 
son, gave me a place in his counting room, where I 
have been in his service ever since. As soon as 
Balph was strong enough, he took me to see him, 
and we came to be like brothers. I could not do 
enough for him, I felt so sorry for him, and he never 
seemed able to do enough for me. When his mother 
died I was with him day and night ; and what Balph 
learned in the day from Mr. Beech, he taught me in 
the evening, and so, without much of school, I have 
managed to get on. Mr. Lindsay has given me every 
chance. He w’ould have taken me from work for 
school, but I didn’t want it ; I preferred to keep at 


124 


The Amber Star. 


work, and promised him if he would let me keep my 
post I would surely learn all that was needed to 
make me a merchant. Mr. Brace, too, thought it 
better for me to be independent.” 

“ And you still try to help him in leisure hours ? ” 
Yes, I am a sort of a watch-dog for him. I am 
never so happy as when I am helping some little 
chap out of the gutter. Balph likes it, too : usually 
he supplies the money, and I do the work. For ex- 
ample, we are going to bring up a score of the 
weakly little fellows this summer from the city, and 
let them camp out about here, and I am to take 
charge of their fun and frolic. The railroads give 
them low rates of fare, and Balph supplies tents, 
camp-beds, and food, and Mrs. Darrell will mother 
them. I feel as if I were not more than ten years 
old when I think of it. The little monkeys will be 
wild with delight, and I shall have all that I can do 
to keep them from breaking their necks.” 


The Ambee Star. 


125 


CHAPTEH Xiy. 

The rumble of wheels on the bridge in the valley, 
half a mile below, broke in upon the eager gestures 
and the heartily told tale, and Lina rose suddenly 
to go. 

“What a stupid fellow I am!” he said, hastily, 
rising, “ to keep you listening to all this.” 

“ I assure you I only long to hear more,” she an- 
swered earnestly ; “ it seems to me the most blessed 
work of which I have ever heard ; but I must go 
home now, for I have overstayed my time.” 

“Don’t you live here? I thought you were the 
young lady in whom Mrs. Darrell had found a com- 
panion and friend.” 

“ Mrs. Darrell has certainly been very kind in let- 
ting me share her home, but I live with my Uncle 
Wilde, near Honey Hill, above Franconia.” 

“Honey Hill; that should be a sweet place.” 

“ It’s a busy one, certainly, but it derives its name 
from the many maple-trees, from which the sugar is 
made, and that is honey sweet.” 

He untied the old horse, and helped her to mount 
him, an act which she had done alone ever since she 


126 


The Amber Star. 


grew too tall for Uncle Loren to lift her in his arms 
and swing her to the saddle ; but she was hardly out 
of sight in the woodland path behind the barn before 
the rattling wheels sounded at the gate and Ralph 
and Mrs. Darrell had arrived. 

And that ride through the woodland road, what a 
ride it was ! For a long time the forest had been a 
temple for Lina’s communing with herself and with 
God. Often had the hour spent in passing from 
one house to the other been one of earnest, though 
unconscious, effort to adjust herself to the complex de- 
mands of her life. Here she had battled to forget 
Hannah’s harshness, to forget her childhood’s degra- 
dation, her father’s cruelty, her mother’s loneliness in 
some garret of the great city. Here she had tried to 
stifle her sense of duty to go and And her mother, to 
save her father ; or tried to forgive herself for caring 
less about this formerly cherished and secret hope, 
now that she had the new home and the new friends ! 
Here she had sought to pray out and to think out the 
many problems that press, no one knows how sorely, 
upon the mind and heart of thoughtful girlhood. 
All this was a part of her daily journey to and fro. 
But to-day she had been pushed forward years into 
a new world of whirling thoughts, memories, and 
emotions. She was older by years — she saw the 
lives of those on whose history her own childish life 


The Ambek Star. 


127 


liad had its effect coming out into beauty and use. 
Kalph had suffered all these years for her ; the pain 
of it was unutterable, and wrung her as no sorrow 
ever yet had done. 

It had lasted years, and it could not be undone. 
He had been crippled, wounded, sore with pain, 
known sleepless nights and anguished days. He 
could not run or work or play with the lads; his 
education had cost a fight with misery, and she had 
been the- cause. And why did God let her know it, 
when she could not, if she gave her life, find any 
way to give back his years ? How gladly she would 
do it, if she could ! but she had nothing, could do 
nothing, could be nothing but a girl, an uneducated 
country girl, picked from the gutters and reared by 
the charity of a woman who did not love her, and 
whom she did not love. 

Yet, out of all his pain, here was patience and 
nobility and strength and sweetness for Ralph. Out 
of Donald’s wretched childhood, as wretched and 
hard as hers, here was the blessing to the needy, the 
benediction and inspiration to others who were still 
suffering and in want. But she — out of her little 
life, what was to come ? 

It was all wrong — she knew it as she went on, tell- 
ing it in broken whispers to the pines. She was 
morbid and weak, but she had been stirred to the 


128 


The Amber Stab. 


depths of her nature by the revelations of the day, 
and she was very young, and, as she said to herself, 
“ only a poor little girl.” 

She was silent and pale after she came home, 
and Loren noticed her agitation, though she tried 
not to have him see it. She was late also, and 
Hannah was cross; but her snappish words fell on 
unheeding ears. 

Loren noticed, too, that day after day passed by 
and she did not go to the Forest Farm again. 

Hannah wondered also, but said to Loren that it 
was ‘‘ jest as well to wait a spell, may be, and see 
whether the city lady would come to see her,” when 
Loren suggested that it was Hannah’s place to visit 
Mrs. Darrell. 

“ Guess she’ll wait a spell if she waits for me,” 
said Hannah, with a sniff of contempt. ‘‘I’ve no 
call to make Mrs. Darrell’s acquaintance. I’ve lived 
sixty years without city folks, and I reckon I can 
hold out a spell longer.” 

From remarks like these they knew that the old 
jealousy had her in its grasp, and they wisely forbore 
frequent mention of the people at Forest Farm. 
Lina still had occasional afternoons with Mrs. Dar- 
rell ; but she generally took occasion when Loren 
had mentioned that the young men were off among 
the mountains, or shooting in the woods. She had 


The Amber Star. 


129 


seen Ralph but once. She was not at home when he 
came over one day, with Mr. Beech and Donald, to 
see his landlord. 

But one Sunday morning, when she arrived early 
at church, and saw the congregation gather, consist- 
ing of smartly-dressed villagers ; of farmers’ families 
who seemed uneasy in their Sunday clothes ; of chil- 
dren whose toes could not reach the floor from the 
high uncushioned seats ; of maidens in pink ribbons, 
and bashful half-grown men, she failed to notice a 
stranger, who entered with the rest. 

Her seat was among the choir, which was led by a 
stalwart, gray-haired farmer, who in winter kept the 
singing-school ; and as singing had ever since the 
days in the mission-school been her delight, Lina 
was the old man’s staff and stay. When, however, 
the flrst hymn was read, and the choir blundered and 
did not follow where she led, a flne clear tenor voice 
from the body of the house joined the singer’s, and 
went on with hers, upbearing all the rest ; while 
her heart beat fast, her voice trembled, though she 
dared not lift her eyes. How she knew whose was 
the voice that had helped them through she never 
could tell, but she did know, even before she glanced 
at the strange face in Uncle Loren’s slip. A tall, 
slender figure, supported by a cane ; a strong, patient 

face, with some marks of suffering in the lines about 
9 


130 


The Amber Star. 


the mouth; a shapely head, crowned with brown 
curls — strange how familiar they all were, and how 
clearly under these outlines she traced the face which 
seven or eight years before she had seen lying on 
the pillows in his father’s house. 

When she came out on the porch he stood talking 
to Uncle Loren, who was waiting for her, and who 
presented her in his simple way, and asked the 
stranger to take a seat in his carriage. 

“ 1^0, thanks ; I am going to stay for a look at the 
children in the Sunday-school. Mr. Lawrence is 
going to bring his twenty boys from the camp, and 
they are so wild on happy week-days that I fear it 
will take us both to keep them quiet on Sundays.” 

“ The experiment is a successful one, then ? ” said 
Lina. 

“ Yes, indeed, they are all having their first sight 
of the country, and their first real holiday. Don is 
their ideal man, their hero, and he is their pilot on 
all their tramps. They are all going to dine in the 
house to-morrow, and Abigail is crazed with prepara- 
tions. Mrs. Darrell said she was going to send 
me to ask you to come over and help to entertain 
them. We are all boys together, and she wants them 
to have the civilizing infiuence of another lady.” 

“ Thank you, I shall, indeed, be glad to come,” she 
answered ; and as she drove home her heart was 


The Amber Star. 


131 


strangely happy and strangely sad ; happy, for in the 
young face was so much more of vigor and courage 
and energy of health than she had thought to see ; 
and sad, because she yet saw, through the beaming 
eyes, the traces of suffering endured. 

On Monday she went to dinner among the boys. 
They were each dressed in a new suit of clothes, 
which Mrs. Darrell had provided, with the help of 
Lina and of the girls of her Sunday-school class, and 
even of Aunt Hannah herself, who had taken real 
interest in this work. They were all on their best 
behavior ; and, with Mrs. Darrell at one end of the 
table and Mr. Beech at the other, and the young 
people midway, Donald by Lina and Balph opposite, 
it was, indeed, a happy company. After the meal 
was over they had a social, merry time in the parlor, 
talking, singing, laughing, with a hearty, happy en- 
joyment of the hour. Lina was surprised at their 
good manners, remembering her terror of the boys 
of the street ; but, treated like gentlemen, all the 
instinctive gentleness that, cultivated, makes the 
truest breeding, was in its fullest exercise. 

When Mr. Beech thought they were tired, he gave 
them a little talk about the fungi and the mosses and 
lichens, showing them through the microscope the 
beauty of specimens such as might be collected in the 
woods. Then Donald told them of a mass of 


132 


The Amber Sta.r. 


mosses that he had seen depending from the pines 
near Mr. Wilde’s house, and before their eyes had 
‘ done brightening the hay- wagon was brought to the 
gate, and Don told them he would drive them over 
to the Point, and perhaps let them secure some of 
the mosses. Away they went, with two horses and 
the hay-cart, and one after another of the boys taking 
his turn to drive. The fanners nodded cheerily as 
they rattled swiftly down the road, glad to see the 
little fellows enjoying themselves. And when they 
reached the wood, and saw the green mosses clinging 
high upon the trees, there was a wild scramble and 
shout at the foot, and a struggle as to who should 
climb ; when Don interfered, and reminded the boys 
that they were in their new suits of clothes, which 
were to be taken back to Kew York with them when 
they returned. 

They yielded, but several still looked longingly at 
the treasure, and Donald, eager to have them grati- 
fied, pulled ofi his coat. “Wait a moment, boys, 
and I’ll have it down for you ; ” and away he went 
scrambling up the trunk of a tree, while a shout arose 
from the group below. 

It was a high tree ; and, as he went up, he pulled 
ofi cluster after cluster of moss, and threw it down ; 
but by the time he reached the branches he was 
tired, and rested a moment on a branch near the 


The Ambee Stae. 


133 


trunk, before going out on the boughs for beautiful 
bunches that clothed some of the smaller limbs. 

Then, moving cautiously, he crept out, steadying 
himself by the bough, when, suddenly, it gave an 
ominous crack that made the boys utter a warning 
shout. It came too late. Donald made one effort 
to return ; but the limb was rotten at the heart, and, 
with a cruel crash, it fell, and in their midst lay the 
insensible form of their friend. 


134 


The Amber Star. 


CHAPTEE XY. 

With white faces and trembling hands, they tried 
to lift him in their arms and bear him to the wagon 
which was waiting in the forest road ; several of 
them ran swiftly down the path to Loren’s house, 
and with his help Donald was borne gently to the 
cart, and the horses led slowly down the hill to the 
house of Hannah Wilde. 

Hannah was in a state of great excitement, but 
she flew hither and thither with her usual ener- 
gy ; and, while the boys fled for the doctor, Don 
was laid in what had been the room of Loren’s 
mother. 

When consciousness returned, and he found where 
he was, he tried to rise, but the doctor gently bade 
him be quiet. Besides many bruises, the left arm 
was broken, and it was not until the bone had been 
set that Lina came. She had walked home, and 
Mrs. Darrell and Ealph had accompanied her as far 
as the foot of the hill, whence Ealph had returned, 
and Mrs. Darrell had gone to see Abigail’s mother, 
who was ill. Loren bade Lina try to quiet Aunt 
Hannah’s nervousness, and drove away swiftly him- 


The Amber Star. 


135 


self down throngli the village, and out to Forest 
Farm. Mrs. Darrell had not yet come in. Returning 
quickly, he passed the little church-yard where his 
mother lay, and his heart went back in thought to 
the days before she died. Her grave was near that 
of Esther’s father and mother, who had been buried 
here, as Wiltonby was their early home, though he 
had been the pastor of a neighboring parish when 
he died. 

As Loren gazed that way, his mind full of mem- 
ory of the two, he saw a moving figure in the 
twilight, lingering between the graves of his mother 
and of hers. He paused, looked again: some one 
was there, passing softly among tlie graves, but 
returning ever, and lingering between those two. 
He remembered that Mrs. Darrell was in the vil- 
lage ; and, thinking it possible the quiet might have 
drawn her hither, he stopped the horses, descended, 
and leaned for a moment on the gate. Ashamed of 
his curiosity, yet held by a strange fascination to 
the spot, he was about to turn away, when the fig- 
ure moved swiftly toward him in the dusk. He 
meant to go ; but still he waited, and, in a moment 
more, the two stood face to face. ‘‘Is it Mrs. Dar- 
rell?” was on his lips; but she lifted her veil, and 
he said : 

“ Good heavens, Esther, is it you ? ” 


136 


The Amber Star. 


“ Yes, Loren ; I am Mrs. Darrell to the people 
here, but I am the Esther you knew.” 

He grasped the railings of the fence, his serious 
face working convulsively, and his voice shook: 

‘‘ Esther ! Estherl ” he said, as if it were too much 
for him to believe. “ Esther, what does it mean ? 
How is it that you are here?” and he bowed his 
face upon his hands, and shook like a leaf in the 
wind. 

Although much agitated, she was the calmer of 
the two. 

“ Loren, I am Mrs. Darrell to these people ; I have 
seen none of the old neighbors. I have not come to 
force myself upon the knowledge of any of them ; I 
have nothing but sorrow to tell, and I cannot bear to 
have them pity me. Keep my secret for me, Loren.” 

“ Yes, yes,” he said ; and suddenly recollecting the 
errand for which he sought her, he told her of Don- 
ald’s fall, and begged her to come to the house. 

With a strange pang of pain, which for a moment 
overcame the emotion at meeting Loren, she took her 
place at his side, and they went swiftly on through 
the gathering darkness to his home. 

He told her of the accident, and reassured her as 
to any fatal result ; but she trembled violently, and 
it was not until the carriage reached the gate that the 
thought of Hannah entered her mind. Then she 


The Amber Star. 


137 


paused in distress. He waited, too, with his hand 
upon the gate. 

“ Do you think Hannah will know me, Loren ? ” 

“I do not know; perhaps you will not see her. 
Do you mind if she should know you ? ” 

“ Only for this family’s sake, Loren ; for Halph 
and Donald I would not like it. I am not ready to 
let them be curious and pitiful toward me. They 
know nothing of my past life.” 

He hesitated. 

“ And I know nothing of the life since your father 
died. I wrote then.” 

“Yes, I remember; I wrote and told you of our 
troubles and poverty; did you not receive my word?” 

“ Ho ; no word ever came to me from you after I 
sent that news.” 

“Well, you shall know all, my friend, but” — she 
hesitated — “ but when, and where ? I meant to see' 
you ; I have something to say to you which I meant 
to say before I left, and I will find an hour. Let us 
go in now : I thought I saw a figure moving in the 
shrubbery there.” 

“Ho, there’s no one there,” he said; but, after they 
passed within the door, a swift figure glided from 
behind the lilac bushes by the fence. 

Hannah, excited and tired, had been waiting for 
Loren there, and her old jealousy smitten heart had 


138 


The Amber Star. 


met a dreadful blow. She went round to the back 
door, and stood a moment on the door-step, but she 
could not go in. 

“ Hannah, Hannah ! ” It was Loren's voice calling 
her, and she darted away down the path, and stood 
behind the curb of the old brown well, just in the 
shadow of the apple-trees. 

“ She must have gone to her room, uncle,” she 
heard Lina say, in a gentle voice, ‘‘ and we need not 
disturb her; she is much excited and distressed by the 
accident, and dreaded, I think, to meet a stranger.” 

Poor Hannah 1 for once she was grateful to the 
girl ; and slie breathed freer in her hiding-place. 
She was dumb with distress and astonishment. 
Loren had deceived her all the time. She was back 
again, tliis dreadful Esther Burgess; and it was not 
that he had given her up, but that she was so near 
him, that made him so calm and patient and kind. 

One swift suspicion followed another with demoni- 
acal rapidity through her mind. He had followed her 
through all the years ; he had planned to bring her 
to his own house. He had taken the opportunity to 
go for her to-night liimself, when he could have sent 
one of the boys. He had planned tliat she should 
liave the teaching and influence over his adopted 
child. 

Ah, yes ! she understood it now. After awhile 


The Ambee Stae. 


139 


Loren would leave her a helpless old woman, who 
had loved him, and him only, all her life long. He 
would go, and would take Lina also. In an agony 
of self-pity at this woe that had fallen upon her old 
gray head, there was this added pang, that Loren, 
after all, did not love or care for her in the least ; he 
was only waiting for her to die, working in secret, 
because then, her hoarded property would be his and 
this girl’s, and, witli it, they would enrich the woman 
tliey both loved. 

The wind whispered soothingly in the apple-trees, 
but she did not hear it; the stars came out over the 
mountains, but she did not see them. Before her 
eyes was only a picture of a lone old woman, robbed 
of her boy ; and in her ears an evil spirit was whis- 
pering a tale that was far blacker than the truth. 
Possessed of a desire to see again the hated face, 
she drew her calico apron over her head, and crept 
round to the end of the house, up to the open win- 
dow of the room where Donald lay asleep. Over his 
pillow bent Esther’s face, full of loving anxiety, 
gentle enough and sad enough to have disarmed 
any hatred. She was bathing his head. Sometimes 
he moved uneasily, and half-opened his ey^s. When 
he met the tender look bent down upon him, he said, 
half-deliriously, not yet free from the dreamy influ- 
ence of the quieting draft given him by the doctor, 


140 


The Amber Star. 


“Is this heaven?” and, watching her intently, 
“ are you my mother ? ” 

“No, I am not your mother; hut I lost my boy, 
and he looked so much like you, that I sometimes 
almost feel I have him back again.” 

Again his eyes closed, and he drowsed. And the 
tears came into the eyes that watched him so ten- 
derly, all unheeding these other burning and angry 
eyes that through the slats of the shutters were 
gazing upon them both. 

A restless moment, and he woke again. This 
time, conscious of who it was that bent above him, 
he smiled, and said: 

“I dreamed I was with my mother; but I fancy 
it was your face that I saw.” 

“ Then go to sleep and dream it again ; for you 
must not talk, you know ; and I will be your mother 
for to-night.” 

He opened his eyes wide, and looked at her: 

“While I am sick, will you be my mother?” 

“Yes, and after you are well, if you wish it.” 

He looked long and steadily at her, and whispered, 

“Kiss me, then.” 

She bowed her head, with her eyes full of tears, 
and kissed his forehead. Then, shutting his lids 
softly with her fingers, she kissed them down, and 
he sighed a great restful sigh, and slept. 


The Ambee Stae. 


141 


Then the woman who watched him wept softly, 
and the woman who watched her grew white in 
her wrath. 

“ What was she, that pale-faced, puny creature, 
that all that was young and beautiful should love 
her, while she—” a movement aroused her attention, 
the door of the sick-room opened, and Loren’s face 
appeared. 

“ Is he sleeping ? ” 

“ Yes,” was the whispered answer. 

“Will you not go to rest? and I will watch him.” 

“ Ho, I do not need to rest ; but I will go out on 
the porch awhile for the air, and you may sit by the 
window here, where you can tell me if he stirs.” 

A moment later she was on the porch, and Loren 
had brought a shawl and wrapped it around her, and 
he himself had taken the seat within. 

But Hannah saw it all-; the chairs were so near — 
hers without and his within — that they could talk in a 
subdued tone, without fear of disturbing the sleeper’s 
rest. 

And they did talk; and in the hall, crouched by 
the wdndow adjoining the one where Loren sat, 
still as death, his half-frantic sister sat and heard the 
story — every word. 


142 


The Amber Star. 


CHAPTEE XYL 

Loren listened, but he was very still; it was no 
time to remind this suffering woman of his buried 
and now reviving love ; and he hid his pang as she 
went on, at the assurance that came to him that she 
went away in her girlhood without loving him, or 
knowing how he loved her. He felt sure she loved 
the man she married, and loved his memory still; 
that she spoke to him as her own and her father’s 
old friend, and not as a lover to whom she had 
returned. 

She told him briefly what we already know of 
the battle with misfortune in Italy, and all that 
followed the effort to come to this land. She told 
him of the wreck of the steamer and the death of 
her husband and her boy; of her long and terrible 
illness in the hospital. 

“ When I recovered, months had passed,” she said. 
‘‘ I had no money, and no heart to return here ; for 
my mother and father both were gone, and I knew 
that many of the neighbors felt I was cruel to marry 
and leave them alone. Then, I had no money, and 
no hope in the world of any thing but finding my 


The Amber Star. 


143 


Stella, my little baby girl. For weeks after I was 
brought to the hospital, in the fever that burned 
my senses out, I cried for my children ; but so 
incoherent was I, that they did not know whether 
I mourned son or daughter, or both. 

“The steward who had brought me from the 
steamer to the hospital gave my name as he had it 
from the list of passengers; but after we sailed I 
changed my state-room with a Mrs. Darrell, in order 
to take into mine the Italian woman who was to 
nurse my child, and my name was thus transferred 
from the ship’s to the hospital record as Mrs. Darrell. 

“Still, the good doctor sought the steamship, 
sought the stewardess and captain, both of whom 
remembered there was a Mrs. Darrell, and never 
questioned when the doctor associated the name with 
the lady who had been taken ill on board. The 
stewardess remembered the Italian woman who had 
taken charge of the child, the steerage list gave her 
name, but no directory contained it, and no search 
in the Italian quarter of the city revealed the hiding- 
place of the woman. 

“On recovery. Doctor Frost told me all tliis: told 
me he could not let me go from his care till he was 
sure I was well, and that if I wished employment, 
he would securer light work for me in the children s 
ward. I think he saw, in the diversion of this care. 


The Ambek Star. 


lU 

my only chance of health and vigor, for he gave me 
first one and then more convalescent little ones to 
love and nurse and pet. 

“ My heart revived somewhat from its sadness ; 
and when he thought I was ready for it, he came 
one mornino: and told me of an accident that had be- 
fallen the only son of a dear friend, and of his mother, 
who was too ill to nurse him, and who begged me to 
take charge of the boy. 

“I came then to Mr. Lindsay’s home, and I have 
loved his boy and his little girl, but the love has 
never stifled my hunger for my own. Motherhood 
has devoured my life. I have done my duty in my 
place, and been grateful for the shelter and comfort 
of a refined Christian home ; but I have had also an 
intense life of longing for my own, out of which has 
grown an enlarged love embracing childhood every- 
where. I have been especially drawn to the children 
of the suffering and the poor, and have seen in every 
boy and girl something that might have belonged 
to me. 

“ Though I know my boy went down into the sea 
with his father, I fancy I see his lineaments in every 
face. That young man there is like what I think he 
must have grown to be, and I find an attachment in 
my heart to him that is almost beyond control. In 
every girl that crosses my path I see my daughter ; 


The Amber Star. 


145 


and sometimes I fear mj desire has turned mj brain, 
for in this child of yours, this Lina, there are looks 
and ways that often make my heart cry out and claim 
her for my own.’’ 

Loren started and winced ; he had not won Esther ; 
she did not, indeed, never had loved him. He could 
never hope to win her. Was he to lose his Lina, too? 
And Hannah, from her window, fairly clenched her 
hands, and shook with fear and rage. If she could, 
if she dared, she would have laid violent hands on 
this woman, who, having nothing, yet claimed and 
took all, and she would have driven her from her gates. 

But Esther did not hear the voices, sad or sinful, 
whispering in each heart. She went on eagerly, and 
said, 

“ This is what I wanted to see you for ; this is 
what I wanted to say. I do not know where you 
found her ; though, as you had no brothers or sisters, 
I know she cannot be your niece. Tell me, do you 
know her parentage ? ” 

“ Ho,” said Loren, with a gasp ; “but the people 
at the Mission did. Her father and mother are both 
alive, and he is a drunkard, from whose cruelty the 
Mission had given her protection. I have tried to 
have her forget that she is not mine ; and I don’t 
think she remembers much.” 

“Then there is no hope here,” she replied, with 
10 


146 


The Amber Star. 


sadness. “And yet, though I have followed many 
clews ; though I have lived a second life among the 
orphans and the poor working-girls of the city, and 
have often and often found one that I could have 
taken to my heart, if I could have proved her mine, 
this is the only child that I could have taken, whether 
I had any proof or not. Once with my arms about 
her, and her voice calling me “ mother,” I think I 
could be content to seek no longer for my child.” 

“ And she would be happy with you, no doubt,” 
said Loren, sadly. There was nothing he would not 
give to see them liappy, these two, the only beings 
he loved; yet somehow he could not say, just yet, 
“ Take her ; she shall be indeed your child.” 

It seemed cruel— why, why should he not be able 
to keep them both ? And then he thought of Han- 
nah, and was still. 

“Was there nothing by which you could identify 
the child? You surely did not come from Italy with 
nothing ? ” 

“ Ho, but I never saw my trunk, and I had made a 
parcel containing my Bible and other little treasures 
and trifles, and some of the baby’s clothes. All of 
hers were marked with a star. Her father named 
her Esther, and the Italians call that Stella, which 
means ‘a star.’ This the Italian woman called Stel- 
lina, ‘a little star,’ and about each of my children’s 


The Ambee Star. 


147 


necks there hung an Amber Star, of trifling value, 
given them by their Italian nurse in Koine, who 
placed it on the baby’s neck, to keep off what she 
called the ‘ Evil eye.’ Then, to please her, I prom- 
ised lier that it should not be taken off the baby 
until she got another like it for my little boy. I 
have no doubt but that she had them both blessed by 
the priest. I have often thought it possible that the 
stars might not have been lost, for poor people — Ital- 
ians especially — are very superstitious about such 
charms, believing that they protect from danger, dis- 
ease, and death.” 

There was a silence ; then Loren said, gently : 

“ I wish I could help you, Esther ; and though I 
see no reason to hope, yet all inquiries shall be made, 
and the child’s memory put to the test. ‘ Should it 
prove that my treasure is yours, I should surrender 
her at once ; and, meantime, I can only be grateful 
to you for the motherly influence which you have 
exerted over her heart and mind. May I ask if you 
mean to declare yourself now, or if you dislike to be 
known by your own name ? ” 

“ I have always regretted the soreness and pain 
that prevented my telling the doctor at the outset 
that the name was not mine. But he had grown 
accustomed to think and to speak of me as Mrs. Dar- 
rell before I knew it. It was not until I had been 


148 


The Amber Star. 


recommended to the Lindsays under that name that 
I knew of the error on the hooks. My whole nature 
was smarting and sore under my sorrow. The name 
did not seem of any consequence to me. It seemed 
like being dead to my old wretched self, and alive 
only in my love and pity for God’s children. The 
time to have told the Lindsays was at first; but in 
their great trouble, Mrs. Lindsay was too ill for me 
to obtrude upon her my tale of woe. Toward the 
father I felt timid, and hesitated ; and after a time 
abandoned the purpose to tell. It troubles me 
sometimes, because it is not true; but, for the rest, 
it has done no harm, and I am quite accustomed to 
the name now. I love my young friends, and I 
cannot bear to show them the gulf of sorrow from 
which I have climbed to their hearts. I feel as if, 
when they knew all, I should have to run away and 
hide from the pity of them all.” 

“ Isn’t that morbid, Esther ? How could they 
help loving you more for what you have had to 
endure ? ” 

‘‘ I don’t know, Loren ; I only feel alive in one 
part of my nature. Should I find my child, I could 
feel again as if life had hope and joy; but now, 
while I submit, I am so sorely bereft, that I am like 
some desert mother, who tries to assuage her deso- 
lation by the care of all the motherless within the 


The Amber Star. 


149 


camp, and when they need her no more, creeps 
away into the shadow of the rocks to die.” 

She wept, and Loren could have wept with her, 
yet he knew that there was but one healing for her 
heart. 'No loving voice, but one that said “Mother” 
to her, could comfort a grief like hers. 

Donald moved and stirred uneasily. Esther 
started to go to his side. Hannah heard her step, 
and felt the rustle of her garments as she swept 
past the window where she crouched. She resisted 
the half-insane desire to seize her in her wrath ; and 
then, when the door of the sick-room closed, and 
Loren came out and passed on to his chamber, she 
arose and staggered away to her bed, to wear out 
the night in sleepless tossing and pain. 

How much she was capable of hating any one 
she never knew till now. Had she been the tender- 
est of mothers to Lina, she would not have been 
more outraged that any one should claim the child ; 
yet how to thwart and defeat her enemy she did not 
know. 

She lay and tossed and moaned, as if already she 
were bereft of child and brother. Then, as if she 
liad taken a sudden resolution, slie arose ; and, taking 
from the cupboard a long gray cloak, she put it over 
]ier night-dress. Then over her head she drew a 
black silk hood ; and, looking, with the wrinkled face 


150 


The Amber Star. 


and gleaming eyes and lieavy brows, like a witcb of 
some old story, she crept softly forth. Not back 
again to the sick-room this time, for she could hear 
Loren’s tread pacing his chamber softly up and down ; 
but up the creaking back stairs, and through a long 
chamber over the shed, filled with unused furniture, 
and hung around the rafters with bunches of seed- 
corn and herbs. On through this room and a little 
corridor beyond, to a half -opened door, where she 
paused. Beyond was Lina’s room. There, in the 
little white bed by the window, with her face turned 
slightly toward the wall, and her arras thrown care- 
lessly over the coverlet, the girl was lying asleep. 

The first gray of the early dawn stole in at the 
window ; and, even in her moment of determination 
to do her a great wrong, a consciousness of how 
beautiful the girl had become stole into the aged 
heart. Surely the kisses of that rosy mouth and 
the clasp of clinging arms like those might gladden 
any desolate mother’s heart; but she whose right 
they were should never have them — never while 
Hannah could prevent. And while there was one 
chance, one proof, Hannah could never know a 
moment’s rest. Was not the girl her own? Had 
she not worked for Lina all these years?” 

Smothering every relenting, the gray figure stole 
softly over the list carpet that covered the fioor, and 


The Amber Star. 


151 


gently laid back the coverlet with stealthy touch. 
There on the white neck of the girl, lay a string of 
golden beads. They had belonged to Loren’s mother, 
and he had given them, on one sacred anniversary 
of his mother’s death, to Lina. And she had loved 
them, and had worn them ever since, only adding 
as a pendant an Amber Star, which she had formerly 
worn attached to a cord. When years ago Aunt 
Hannah had discovered this, and told her it was a 
heathenish notion to wear any such charm, the child 
had clung to it, and begged that it should not be re- 
moved. Now Hannah remembered it; and when 
she saw it rising and falling with the regular breath- 
ing of the child, she could hardly refrain from a little 
triumphant cry. 

There it was : Esther Burgess should never find it. 
Quick as thought, she severed the string, picked up 
the star, and glided from the room. 

Was it a dream? Or did Lina’s eyes opening in 
the gray dawn see the form of Aunt Hannah creep- 
ing through the corridor to the shed chamber ? She 
thought she saw her, and started up half-awake, half- 
conscious of a fear that Don might be worse, and 
that she was wanted ; then fell back again, lost in a 
happy dream of a young face looking at her from 
Uncle Loren’s seat in church, and of a voice that 
came up to join her own in praise of God. But 


152 


The Amber Star. 


tlie voice and face were not those of the sufferer, 
Don. 

Plannah was unusually still and grim in the morn- 
ing, and as Lina went about her work, she saw the 
old woman looked worn and tired. 

Poor auntie ! it was hard for her to have such a 
shock as that of yesterday ; she was not strong, so 
Lina thought, resolving to love and help her more. 
Going out to brush the leaves from the porch, she 
saw Ralph sitting there in the arm-chair, near Don- 
ald’s window, where last night Esther had sat and 
talked so long. The pony carriage was at the gate. 
Ashamed of tlie color that rose to her cheeks, she 
went forward and greeted him. 

‘‘I could not sleep. Miss Wilde,” he said; ‘‘so 
drove over early to see how Donald is, and to take 
Mrs. Darrell home.” 

“He has had a comfortable night, I believe, but 
you surely will not take Mrs. Darrell home till you 
have breakfasted ? My aunt” — she was going to say — 
“ my aunt will be so glad to have you with us,” but 
she checked herself. Aunt Hannah’s face did not 
look that morning as if she would be glad. 

“No, thank you ; I have seen her, and she thinks 
the fresh air will give her an appetite. I shall return 
and take her place by Donald’s bed to-day, if your 
uncle and aunt will allow me, for Mrs. Darrell needs 


The Amber Star. 


153 


rest. I wanted to be here last night ; but onr boys 
in camp were so distressed, that I could not leave 
them alone.” 

“ So you have been all night out in /the field ? ” she 
said, suddenly taking alarm for his health. 

“ O, that is nothing. I could not sleep, and Don’s 
boys were a comfort. It’s amazing how they love 
him. Why, he can make of them just the sort of 
men he will.” 

“ It is glorious work to do,” she said, thoughtfully, 
under the breath, looking away to the mountains 
upon whose summit the sun was scattering the clouds, 
while the mists still stealthily crept along the vale. 

How beautiful she was — as she stood there under 
the vines, with the thoughtful look in her eyes, born 
of the desire to be doing such work as Don could do 
— she did not know ; but Ralph did, and as he drove 
to the hill with Mrs. Darrell, he was tempted to say 
to her, “ That girl is like the morning-glories in the 
sweetness and freshness of her beauty ; ” but somehow 
the words died on his lips unspoken. 

“Them city folks wouldn’t stay to breakfast, after 
all,” said Aunt Hannah to Loren, as he passed through 
the room. 

“Hot stay! Well, of course not, if you didn’t in- 
vite them,” he answered, sharply. “ You are the 
mistress of the house.” 


The Amber Star. 


IH 

“Well, I’ve got the vittles, that’s ray part. I left 
the manners to you and Lina. Besides, who s’posed 
they would want to sneak off before daylight? 
I shouldn’t do that, if I’d done nothin’ to be 
ashamed of.” 

“ They have only just now gone,” said Loren ; 
“ they asked for you, and seemed fearful that they 
had made you ill. They felt your kindness in taking 
them in,” he added, soothingly, seeing how gray 
and hard and suffering her wrinkled old face 
appeared. 

“ Well, they needn’t trouble about me — nobody 
needn’t,” she said, harshly ; and Loren, who could 
not account for her mood in any other way, began to 
wonder if she could have seen and recognized Esther ; 
or, dreadful thought, “could she have heard their talk 
last night ? ” 

He dismissed his fear, however, and was as gentle 
and soothing as possible, though she repelled all re- 
proach with an angry bitterness that seemed beyond 
control. 

Halph came back, arriving at the same time with 
the doctor, who came on his morning visit. Donald 
seemed bright, and to be suffering but little pain, so 
little that the physician said that if there was no 
return of fever, he might after two or three days re- 
turn to the Forest Farm. For Aunt Hannah’s sake 


The Amber Star. 


166 


Lina was glad ; for she seemed in no condition to 
carry an added work or care ; but for her own sake 
she was sorry. The house was another spot to her 
with Don lying there, brave and patient and smiling ; 
and Kalph moving about as gently as a woman, but 
creating by his very presence a new atmosphere for 
the girl. 


15G 


The Ambek Star. 


CHAPTER XYIL 

Youth had come into the old house, happy, not 
burdened youth, and Loren felt it, and Lina felt it ; 
and, never recognized by either, love had come in 
with youtli, and for two young hearts under the 
gray farm-house roof the world was transfigured, 
indeed. 

And indeed it needed to be transfigured, if the 
poor girl was*" to live in it with Aunt Hannah for a 
companion. The latter was untiring in labor ; broths 
and soups of the best kinds were made for Donald ; 
and Ralph, who came to their table, really carried 
about him an atmosphere of kindness hard to resist. 
She quite melted in his presence into sociability, but 
only to go back more fiercely than ever to the injured 
look and manner when he was not in siffht. 

o 

Strange as it may seem, a whole day passed, and it 
was not until Lina was ready to retire that she missed 
the little star. It was the one relic of another life to 
her ; and she had held it precious, rather because it 
was all that she had, than for anj^ association it re- 
vived. She tried to remember what she had done, 
that could have severed the star from the beads ; but 


The Amber Star. 


157 


no explanation arose to her mind. She examined the 
beads, and was startled when she found that the 
narrow ribbon from which the trinket had hung had 
been cut raggedly aciross. It was not worn ; there 
was 110 thin spot ; but unquestionably it had been 
cut. Some one had done it, and it must have been 
done in her sleep. Swift as thought her mind went 
back to the image of Aunt Hannah that had broken 
through her dream : “ Could she have taken it ? 
for what reason ? ” She remembered that she had 
brought to the farm-house a little fashion of grasping 
it in her hand, when she said her prayers — a fashion 
caught from seeing Felicia with her rosary — and that 
Aunt Hannah called this a popish, heathenish habit, 
and hit her knuckles whenever she found her doing 
it, until she learned to let it alone. “Could Aunt 
Hannali liave taken it?” If so, she must be un- 
settled in her mind, which would account for the 
bitterness and suspicion she seemed to exercise lately 
toward both Loren and herself. 

So she resolved to be gentler and more pitying 
toward the old woman, to look about for her little 
treasure, and if she could not find it, to submit 
patiently to its loss, but on no account to irritate her 
aunt. She, poor soul, was torn between her desire to 
pour upon them all the vials of her wrath, and her 
assurance that this would only hasten the catastrophe 


158 


The Amber Star. 


she dreaded. She parted with Donald kindly; but 
set to work to scrub the room and air the bed, as if 
some pestilent disease had found shelter under the 
roof. She devised every means to keep Lina too 
busy to go to the Forest Farm, so that the girl’s op- 
portunities of seeing her friends were rare ; and 
when the others came to see her she showed im- 
patience, sometimes to Donald, always to Dalph, 
whose gentle ways she ceased to feel when she saw 
that Lina felt them too. All seemed to her to be a 
part of the same conspiracy to take the girl away. 

So the summer swiftly passed, and the last days 
were less happy than the first. Hannah watched 
Loren’s movements with jealous fear ; and when she 
found he did not go to Esther’s side, she only sus- 
pected more strongly that their future was all ar- 
ranged, their undei'standing so complete, that they 
had nothing to do but to wait. Sometimes she wished 
to die, and break all their hearts at once with the 
news that they were the cause of her death ; then a 
fear that, after all, it might be more relief than care, 
made her resolve if possible to live forever. Some- 
times she softened, and would have been ready to 
promise Esther, her brother, her child, and all her 
hoarded property, if she would take herself beyond 
her reach while she lived. Again, she would put on 
her black-quilted hood and shawl and start to tell 


The Amber Star. 


159 


Estlier what she thouglit of her stealing back under 
an assumed name after a man who belonged to other 
people, and to tell her that if she made one move to 
claim her child, she would withhold every dollar 
from the girl ; but, though she went muttering half- 
way up the Forest path, she usually talked it out to 
herself, and came back tired out, without having ful- 
filled the purpose for which she went. 

The winter brought a change, and she grew more 
like herself, gentler and kindlier, for she had her 
own once more, as before Mr. Lindsay rented the 
Forest Farm. The boys were taken back to the city 
first, and Ralph went with them to attend to Donald’s 
duties, and to receive his father on his return. 
Donald and Mrs. Darrell followed as soon as he was 
able, and there was left for Lina only the sad pleas- 
ure of going over to see Abigail, who had moved her 
aged mother up to keep her company, and was left in 
charge of the house. One hope buoyed her up 
through all the chill of winter. They liked the 
mountains, and the old house suited them, so they 
secured its rental by the year, and next summer they 
were coming again. 

What a winter it was to the snow-bound girl ! 
In imagination she followed Ralph in his medical 
studies, Mrs. Darrell in her home cares, or Donald 
in his wonderful and fascinating evenings with his 


160 


The Amber Star. 


poor boys. Her mind made the most of the leisure 
and of Loren’s books, for she wanted to be ready for 
the task Uncle Loren had promised she should under- 
take in the spring. He watched her as tenderly as 
ever; but even he was more subdued than of old, 
and Lina saw how fast his hair w’as becoming gray. 
She tried to be a blessing, but the joyful conviction 
that she was one rarely gladdened her heart. Still 
she was young, and the spring-time would surely 
come. 

And when it came, and in April began the first 
term of her little school, she felt new life had come 
to her as well as to the trees and fiowers. 

Hot more than twenty pupils in all, little girls and 
boys, too small to work in the fields, children of the 
hill-side farmers, for whom the larger schools in the 
village were too distant. They came in the morning 
fresh and rosy from their walk, barefooted boys, 
bashful girls, books under their arms, and tin pails of 
luncheon in their hands. 

This was her material, and to her task of molding 
it the young girl set herself with all her heart and 
soul. For the first time she had use for her best 
powers ; for the first time heart and brain worked in 
unison. She loved them as Don loved his boys, and 
did not feel her work was done till she had helped 
them to be and to do their best. 


The Amber Star. 


161 


Not content with books and school, she found them 
in their homes. Tlie willing but incompetent child 
of an invalid mother was taught how to shake up 
pillows, to make a bed, to sweep without raising a 
shocking dust, to prepare dainty dishes for the sick. 
The motherless girl, whose culinary knowledge was 
confined to boiling potatoes and steeping tea, was 
brought over to the house ; and Aunt Hannah, 
who really delighted in the school because Lina was 
happy in it, was persuaded to teach her to cook, 
and all the girls met at intervals together to learn to 
make garments for themselves, or for those more 
needy still. So time ran on, till May was nearly 
over, when, one night, having lingered to help a 
backward boy over his lesson, she left the little 
white school-house, and made her way home across 
the fields. 

The sunset had been beautiful; the hills were 
purple with the after-glow. God seemed wondrously 
near, and she found herself asking, as the sense of his 
great loving-kindness sank within her soul, that he 
would let her heart share his love for the suffering 
and the poor, and let her help him in her little way 
to make the weary rest and the sad ones glad. She 
greatly loved this hour, and her best tlioughts often 
came to her out of doors; therefore she prized the 

solitary walk to and fro. 

11 


162 


The Amber Star. 


Leaving the field for the road, she suddenly came 
upon Uncle Loren, waiting by the way-side. 

‘‘ I saw you coining, girlie, and waited for you,” he 
said ; “ I want your help.” 

“In what, dear uncle? I only wish I was a great boy; 
then I would help you, indeed I would,” and she 
slipped her arm in his and patted his great kind hand. 

“ O, it is not on the farm, child. It’s only to help 
me to help some one else. You know how Aunt 
Hannah hates the sight of a beggar or a tramp, and 
I have came across three — two men and a woman 
with a hurdy-gurdy. They are always coming up 
this way as summer appears, and they go from place 
to place, and live very comfortably on the contri- 
butions from the strangers at the hotels. The men 
are all right ; but the woman looked so miserably 
ill, that I could not refuse to let them sleep in the 
barn. It is going to be a cold night, and the barn 
is well enough for the men; but — but” — he stam- 
mered — “I don’t think I could sleep, if I thought 
of a woman out there in the hay.” 

“What do you want me to do, uncle? Aunt Han- 
nah would never let her stay in the house.” 

“ She is clean,” said Loren, thoughtfully ; “ could 
she not sleep in the chamber over the shed?” 

“I don’t know; perhaps Aunt Hannah would let 
her.” 


The Amber Star. 


163 


“Well, if she will, let us put her there; if not, 
and Aunt Hannah is disturbed about them, you go 
out to the barn with me and see the woman. A 
woman always knows what ought to be done for 
another, and I will take out any food you can spare 
for her.” 

Lina gave his arm a little happy squeeze. 

“ That’s just like you, uncle, always trying to see 
how you can help one without hurting another. I 
will do all that I can in this case,” and she did not 
add her after-thought, that this was, may be, the be- 
ginning of an answer to her prayer. 

Aunt Hannah’s consent was given, not without 
much preliminary grumbling, to the woman’s occu- 
pancy of the shed chamber. She locked the door com- 
municating with the house, and when the woman was 
once inside the room, as quietly locked her in. If in 
the night she chose to let the men in, and rob the 
house — as she had no doubt they intended to do — 
she preferred to go to bed feeling she held the keys 
herself. 

Lina took food out to them in the evening, as they 
sat in the barn, her Uncle Loren carrying the basket 
and the lantern. She did not vronder that her aunt’s 
suspicions were aroused, when she saw two rough, 
swarthy fellows, one young and one middle-aged 
and quite gray, and a woman, who seemed much 


164 : 


The Amber Star. 


older than either, so haggard and worn and sallow 
was she, with a hacking cough, and bright red spots 
under her eyes that glistened in the lamp-light like 
blazing coals. 

She seemed very stiff and lame, and accepted 
gratefully the warm drink, and offer of a bed, to 
which Lina showed the way in the garret. As the 
light of the lantern fell on the girl’s face, a sudden 
exclamation : ‘‘ Dio mio I ” broke from her lips ; and, 
turning, she saw the woman with clasped hands and 
face white with agitation, regarding her with a fixed 
and burning stare. ‘‘Stellina, Stellina, figlia 
she muttered; and Lina struggled for a moment, 
with terror and surprise, and said at last, ‘‘Yes, I 
know — you are Felicia, my mamma!” 

Broken sobs of joy seemed to overwhelm the old 
creature. She did not attempt to embrace her; but 
seized her hands and covered them with kisses and 
tears. Dumb with conflicting emotions, she grew 
quiet for a moment, when she heard Hannah’s step, 
and the snap of the lock on the door connecting with 
the corridor that led to her own room. 

“Hush,” said Lina, withdrawing her hands, “stay 
here. I must go now, but I will come back by and 
by and talk to you.” 

And she ran hastily down the stairs. She would 
have gone out in the porcli ; but a strange old terror 


The Amber Star. 


165 


lest ‘‘ Matteo,” whom she now knew to be the elder 
of the men, should appear before her, sent her to her 
own room. 

As she entered the kitchen Loren was there; he 
had just come in. 

“Well, girlie,” he said, “it takes all sorts of people 
to make a world, does it not ? ” but noticing how pale 
she was, he added, “Why, what’s the matter, child?” 
bending down and looking into her face. 

She trembled like a leaf. 

“Why, child, what frightens you so? these Ital- 
ians ? ” 

And she whispered, “Yes.” 

“Well, then, I’m sorry I sheltered them,” he ex- 
claimed; and then, as if a sudden thought struck 
him, he said, kissing her gently, and holding her for a 
moment against his heart, “ Don’t you fear, little girl ; 
I understand. You have seen such people long ago 
in the city, and these make you remember. Don’t 
you fear, childie, for my arms are around you.” 

She clung to him, and perhaps would have sobbed 
out all her trouble on his neck, had not Hannah 
appeared at the door, and jingled her keys in 
triumph. 

Before Hannah could see her face she broke away 
and ran up stairs to her own room, and threw herself 
on her knees beside the bed. 


166 


The Amber Star. 


“Better start those people off pretty early, Han- 
nah, and I’ll not take in any more of that sort,” said 
Loren. 

“ Why, have they stolen something, already ? ” 

“Ho, but I think you are right about it; they are 
not the kind who need our help. I’m sorry I took 
them in.” 

“Well, we’re of one mind for once,” said Han- 
nah ; and went away, glad that she had already locked 
the door. 


The Ambek Stab. 


167 


CHAFTEE XYIII. 

Alone, between the bed and the window, where a 
willow-tree tapped the pane with its slender fingers, 
far into the windy night, Lina faced this new and 
most terrible misfortune of her life. 

She had prayed for power to save the unfortunate, 
to rescue the perishing, to rest the weary. She had 
lain awake at night, planning how she should use the 
money she would earn, to find and help this mother. 
She liad even dreamed, as she heard Don talk of vile 
men reclaimed from the power of drink by the power 
of kindness and love — of Matteo, her father — and 
longed for the day when she might try. And here 
tliey were, cast by the waves of trouble at her feet. 

She had often thought of asking Donald to find 
them for her ; but, somehow, after she knew Ealph, 
lier courage failed. If Don knew, Ealph must know, 
and she saw how unwilling she would be to have him 
see her parents in these two creatures. Then she 
was willing to seem what she was not to Ealph ; how 
mean her nature must be, how unworthy of him! 
Again, how she wronged him, by thinking that he 
was so ignoble as to allow her parentage to change 


168 


The Amber Star. 


his view of herself. Yet, reproach herself as she 
would, she could not help being glad that he did not 
know. 

And Aunt Hannah, too, would she be willing to 
keep her near her, when she saw from among what 
people she came ? She could see her now in imagina- 
tion scrubbing and fumigating the room where her 
mother slept, and what was she better than her 
mother? Her heart swelled with pity; she could 
not decide what she would do. She would go to the 
poor creature now and comfort her, and judge after- 
ward what might be done. Softly she crept to the 
door ; Hannah’s room was below ; she passed through 
the corridor, and locked the door on the other side. 

The woman was lying in the bed, with her face to 
the window. Lina sat down beside her, and took her 
burning hand. She was prepared for pleadings to 
be acknowledged, to be cared for, but nothing of the 
sort was asked. The woman raised herself, and put 
her arms around her, and talked to her in the sweet 
Italian tone, offering pet names and caresses like 
those with which she used to soothe her to sleep, 
when she came home from a day of cold and hunger 
spent in the noisy streets. 

She said : “You must not let Matteo see you in the 
morning, cara ; he will want money from this kind 
man with whom you live. He is very angry always 


The Amber Stab. 


169 


that you went away, for he has had to work for him- 
self ; but I am very glad, now that I know you are 
safe and well.” 

Lina let her talk, and smoothed her face, meantime, 
with her hand. A strange stillness seemed to have 
come down upon her. 

“ What shall I do for you ? ” she asked, conscious, 
perhaps, that there was lack of affection to be made 
up by service. “ I must take care of you now that 
you are sick. You ought not to go about any 
more. I must work for both.” 

“ I see that you are a good and kind child ; but I 
like to go about among the hills, and Matteo earns 
enough. If he would let the drink alone, he would 
be kind and good.” 

“ Does he ever beat you now, mamma ? ” asked Lina. 

“Not often now,” she answered, coughing. Lina 
raised her in the bed, and the two sat and whispered 
through the night ; and Lina promised, if her mother 
would let her know where she could be found in the 
city, to send her money, as she had it, to buy com- 
forts and medicine and food and clothing ; she prom- 
ised, also, that she would go to the city as soon as the 
way opened to do it, and find some work to do, and 
care for her as best she knew. But for the pres- 
ent she could not leave those who had been so good 
to her; and if Felicia would not iQave Matteo, she 


170 


The Amber Star. 


must wait till Lina could come to her. When she 
went into the room she had not made up her mind 
to promise this ; but sitting there by the side of this 
victim of poverty and distress, partly because her 
love did not acknowledge her, her conscience took 
upon herself the task. 

Surely she owed too much to Uncle Loren and Aunt 
Hannah to leave them ; but when the time came that 
Felicia would leave Matteo, she would tell Loren all 
about it, and he would let her go. It was evident 
that she had found her work, to care for Hannah and 
Felicia, in sickness and old age — the two women 
who, in her helplessness, had cared for her. 

Soothed by the gentle acceptance of the girl, who 
would, as she feared, refuse to know her, and over- 
come by weakness, Felicia fell asleep. Then softly 
the girl stole to her room, and, kneeling again by the 
open window, kej^t her first vigil through the night, 
praying for strength to do what she had promised. 
She was frightened to find how her feelings of out- 
raged helplessness, of anger and contempt, came 
back, when she thought of the man whose daughter 
she believed herself to be. Hot for a moment did 
she include him in the plan ; and it was only after a 
weary struggle that she included him in the prayer. 

Worn out with this trial, she fell asleep, with her 
head against the pane. When she awoke, she was 


The Ambee Stae. 


171 


doubtful where she was; but, away down the lane, 
she could hear a jargon of angry voices. She list- 
ened — it was surely the Italians. She could see the 
arms and shoulders of the men shrugging and gesticu- 
lating as they talked. Behind them came Felicia, 
who seemed to be entreating and remonstrating, or 
protesting, as they passed out of sight at a turn in 
the road. Hannah had fulfilled Loren’s suggestion, 
and had “ given them an early start.” 

Being Saturday, there was no school that day, and 
Aunt Hannah was unusually pleasant and kind ; and 
so utterly had tlie Italians passed out of sight, that 
but for the memory of it, she could have called it all 
a dream. She helped Hannah to clean the shed 
chamber, with many strange sad thoughts clouding 
her brain ; and, entering the room alone, she noticed 
a drawer in an old-fashioned chest of drawers that 
was slightly open. From it projected the edge of a 
slip of paper. Instantly she divined its object. It 
had been placed there to attract her attention. In 
Italian, in a trembling hand, was scratched upon it, 
Addio^ carissima^ Addio^ Numero Quarante-uno^ 
Sir add Mulberry^ York JYuova.'^ She closed the 
drawer, and put the paper carefully away in her 
desk. She knew what it meant, and God would 
enable her to keep her word. 

On Sunday, she was among her girls in the Sab- 


172 


The Amber Star. 


bath'Scliool and at church, and it seemed to her she 
never knew before how to speak to them of love and 
self-sacrifice, of love that longs to be of use. 

On Monday morning, at the school, while her chil- 
dren were taking recreation in the yard, the sound of 
a hurdy-gurdy broke upon her ear. It was no un- 
usual sound in the summer weather; but somehow it 
smote her heart to-day with a sudden tremor and 
chill. She sent a little boy to ring the bell, for, if 
it should be Matteo, she would not let him see her 
face ; and when the children came in and took their 
seats, the music ceased, and her heart gave a great 
throb of relief. But it was too soon, for close behind 
the last barefooted urchin came a stalwart man, gray- 
haired, unshaven, with a bloated face and small glit- 
tering eyes. He stood in the door, face to face with 
the girl, extending his hat as if for money, but fixing 
upon her a most scrutinizing gaze. 

Without a word, she opened her small purse, and, 
holding it so that he could see she gave him all, she 
emptied it into his hat. If she gave all, perhaps he 
would not return. “ Grazia Signor ina and as he 
left the door, he said Addio^^ until we meet 
again.” 

She hardly knew how she got through the day. 
She went straight to Uncle Loren, and said with the 
tears starting from her eyes : 


The Ambee Star. 


173 


“ Uncle Loren, you will think I am a baby ; but 
those Italians came with the hurdy-gurdy to the 
school to-day, and I am afraid.” 

“Never mind, my child,” said he, stroking her 
hair; “they will not come again. I have had a visit 
from them. The old man came back from the 
school, and asked to stay here to-night, and I for- 
bade it.” 

“ Do not anger him, uncle ; they are dreadful men. 
They would try to revenge themselves. They are 
wicked enough to burn the house over our heads.” 

“ Don’t you fear, darling. I have sent them away, 
once for all. He was very impatient ; he meant to 
get money out of me ; but I told him if he did not 
get out of the county in twenty-four hours, that I 
would have him locked up as a vagrant. You would 
not be sorry to see him shut up, Lina?” 

He asked the .last question abruptly, watching her 
face the while, for he thought that if what the man 
had told him was true — if, indeed, she was his 
daughter, she would wish him to be spared. 

She read his face, and a sudden sense of shame 
that she had concealed from him what she knew he 
had every right to know, came over her, and she said, 
bowing her head and crimsoning with shame : 

“ Dear uncle, I don’t know what to say. I know 
he is a bad man ; I never can help being very angry 


174 


The Amber Star. 


with him, since — since I was a child ; I — I lived — 
with him, and he was cruel and beat me, and yet I 
am afraid he is my father.” 

Her voice sank almost to a whisper, and her white 
lips and quivering eyelids only showed what the con- 
fession cost- 

“I don’t believe it,” answered Mr. Wilde, quickly; 
“and you need not. I think he claimed you for 
money only. Did you call him papa ? ” 

“Ho, Mamma Felicia told me to call him, ‘Papa 
Matteo ; ’ the other children did not call their par- 
ents so. I did as I was told.” 

“Well, you shall not be troubled by him again, I 
promise you. I don’t choose to believe his story. I 
doubt if the woman is your mother ; but, of course, 
I cannot know. I — ” 

“ But she was kind, and she loved me.” 

“ And you loved her ? ” 

She answered, hastily, 

“Hot as I ought to do. Uncle Loren; I want to 
take care of her ; I want to help her ; I think he is 
cruel to her.” 

“ And so you shall help her, my child ; for what- 
ever you may have been, you are my child by law ; 
for I have regular papers of adoption, and have all a 
father’s right to protect you.” 

He forgot in his eagerness how he had felt, that 


The Amber Star. 


175 


he would be glad to see her proven not to be Mrs. 
Darrell’s child. Now he would have been more 
glad to have it clearly proven that she was any 
thing rather than to have her haunted by her present 
fears. 

He comforted her; and, relying implicitly upon 
his word, she lost the fear of further contact with 
Matteo, kept her resolution to aid Felicia, and tried 
to forget the rest. 

On the evening of the day when this talk with 
Loren occurred. Forest Farm again received its occu- 
pants. Early the following afternoon Halph and 
Don found their way to Mr. Wilde’s. Lina was in 
school, and Loren in the field. Hannah received 
them a little stiffly, but more cordially than they had 
any reason to expect. Six months had passed ; and 
as nothing threatening had occurred, the edge of her 
hostility was somewhat blunted. 

Halph was in fine condition — “ never so well,” he 
said. He sat in the porch, and told Hannah that 
Mrs. Darrell was to remain in town awhile, but that 
his father was coming instead, with his sister, whom 
he hoped to persuade Miss Wilde to take among hei- 
pupils. 

Strange how genial Hannah became under the 
news that Mrs. Darrell was not to come ! She even 
said, ^‘it would be nice for Lina to have a private 


176 


The Amber Stab. 


pupil,” a concession which ordinarily she would not 
have made. 

Donald said ‘that his hoys were coming — quite an 
army of them, and that he was going to look for a 
camp-ground for them in the woods, as he must be- 
gin at once to prepare their quarters ; but Ralph 
declined to take so long a tramp, and said he would 
sit with Aunt Hannah until Don came back again. 
If it occurred to him that school would be out, and 
that some one might join Hannah ere Donald re- 
turned, he did not confide his hope to the old lady, 
and Don went striding off up the hill toward the 
woods. He had in mind a couple of sugar-houses 
standing in the forest, the walls of which he thought 
he could use, with Loren’s permission, as supports 
for the cabins or booths which he meant the boys to 
build. An hour’s climbing brought him in sight of 
one of these — a black, dreary-looking hut, in a grove 
of somber pines. As he approached he noticed empty 
bottles and scraps of paper and food, signs of human 
life about the house. Suddenly a scream rang out 
on the air, followed by a volley of drunken abuse, in 
the Italian tongue, such as made him feel suddenly 
transferred to the Five Points region in the city of 
Hew York. He heard a blow, a fall, a moan, and 
before there was time for more his foot had broken 
in the door and he stood in the middle of the hut. 


The Amber Star. 


177 


A woman crouched in the corner ; the blow was for 
her, but the fall was that of the man who dealt it, 
who now lay, too intoxicated to rise, upon the cabin 
floor. 

His first impulse was not altogether humanitarian 
and pacific. He was very strongly disposed to handle 
the man roughly enough to finish the work the liquor 
had begun, and to render him powerless for further 
harm ; but he saw that the spasm of drunken raving 
was fast being followed by the succeeding stage of 
stupor, so left him alone, and turned his attention 
to the woman. She covered her head with her 
shawl, and, amid sobs and broken cries, begged 
him not to take her husband away, and not to shut 
him up. 

“ I will make him go ; I have tried to make him 
go, and he is not bad when he is sober.” 

Donald soothed her, and permitted her to come 
outside with him, promising her that he would help 
her, and that no harm should come to them. Little 
by little she was reassured, and, amid much coughing 
and distress, was persuaded to tell her fears. 

‘‘ I do not like to tell ; I do not dare to tell. He 
wmuld kill me if he knew ; but I am old, I am sick, 
and I do not know, what to do. I fear that he will do 
something that will bring harm.” 

Her eyes and cheeks glowed with a feverish light, 
12 


178 


The Amber Star. 


and Don feared slie was too bewildered with trouble 
to know really what she said; but by dint of ques- 
tioning, he drew from her that her husband was 
angry with the farmer at the foot of the hill; that 
he said the farmer’s adopted daughter belonged to 
him ; and that he asked the farmer for money in 
return for her labor during all these years ; that he 
gave him some money, but bade him leave the town, 
and threatened to have him arrested if he did not go. 
She said that Matteo’s anger was aroused, and he 
would not go, but had concealed himself here in the 
hut, watching for a chance to be revenged. She 
could not make him abandon the idea. 

“ What does he mean to do ? ” he asked. 

“ Sometimes he threatens the girl,” she said ; 
“ sometimes to tire the buildings ; and I have tried to 
go to the farm to warn her ; but he caught me in the 
woods and beat me, so that I could only crawl back 
here,” and again she covered her head and wept. “ I 
do not care for myself ; I would not tell for myself ; 
but I cannot have him harm the child. Think, sig- 
nore, I held her in these arms, and slept with her in 
my breast,” and she spread out her emaciated arms 
and bronzed, wasted hands, and then folded them 
about her as if she hugged within them still the form 
of a little child. 

“ Then you loved her ? ” 


The Amber Stab. 


179 


“ Dio MiOy I have had only her to love ! ” she an- 
swered, fiercely. 

“ Then be comforted, my good woman,” he said ; 
“I will protect her. Persuade him to go away, if 
you can ; tell him, when he is sober, that I saw him, 
and that I leave you this money with which to go 
away ; and that I will report him to Mr. Wilde if 
he does not go. Tell him that I am from ISTew 
York, and know how to find him there, too; and 
he will go. But I will watch the girl; you need 
not fear, he shall not hurt her.” 

Then he arose, and, going into the now shadowy 
hut, struck a match, and then another, and by their 
light he scanned the face heavy in its drunken sleep. 

She watched him anxiously. 

“ He is not bad when he is sober,” she said again. 
“ Do you really know him ? ” 

“Yes, I thought I did ; now I am sure. I have 
seen him often in New York, years ago, with the 
organ and the child. If he does not go away, tell 
him I will see that he never goes back ; ” and with 
a few more kindly words he left her. 

When a hundred rods away he went back. Stop- 
ping on the way, he gathered armfuls of boughs of 
fragrant fir, and with them came back to the cabin. 
Still the woman sat there, crouching outside the 
door. Close against the cabin wall he threw his 


180 


The Amber Star. 


load ; out again and back with another. Then, find- 
ing a hollow between the rocks, he built a little fire, 
and, gently drawing her near it, he laid her on the 
bed he had made, so that the warmth should reach 
her feet and penetrate her frame. Then quickly 
removing his light overcoat, he wrapped it about 
her shoulders, and was gone. 


The Amber Star. 


181 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Don feared his coat would be missed, and his late- 
ness noticed, when he returned to the house ; but no, 
to Ralph the time had been all too short. He had 
been with Lina in the porch. What Donald felt as 
he saw them there could not be put into words. 

The childish life that had so drawn out his sympa- 
thy came before him, and as he saw Lina to-night, 
with the glow of pleasure lighting her cheeks and 
eyes, and thought of the mother lying up there under 
the stars among the pines, with the hre of misery 
slowly burning out her life, his heart was full of 
thankfulness for the one, of pity for the other. And 
then came back to his heart a sort of joy, that He 
who had protected her in childhood could protect 
her now. 

“ What time is school out, Lina ? ” he said, as they 
parted. “ I’ll come round and walk home with you 
to-morrow. I’ve not had half a chance to-night, and 
I have the plans to submit to you for my boys.” 

But Ralph was full of spirits. Donald felt he 
knew the secret of his joy, and was not surprised 
when he said, 


182 


The Amber Star. 


“Don, old fellow, do you know I believe I love 
that girl ? ’’ 

“ I know it,” said Don, gently. 

“ The truth is, she makes a new man of me ; she is 
so in earnest and so real. She takes that horrible life 
at the farm like a little queen.” 

“ They are very fond of her, Ralph. It is not so 
bad a life, and I’m not sure but it is the discipline 
that makes her so sweet and helpful to others.” 

“Yes, 1 understand,” said Ralph, eagerly; “but 
I long for the day when I shall dare to ask her to 
help me.” 

“ Why don’t you ask her, then ? ” 

“ Because I am such a good-for-nothing, Don ; I 
have done nothing yet. Some man ought to win her 
who is doing a brave work in the world, like yourself, 
for example.” 

“ But you will do a brave work. You are to be a 
physician. She is born to soothe and comfort. Since 
you began to go about with rne among the poor 
and to minister to the sick you have been doing 
the work she likes best. I think she loves you, my 
boy, and see but one reason why you should not 
win her.” 

“What’s that?” said Ralph, with some excitement; 
what can there be, if you think I can become worthy 
of her ? ” 


The Amber Star. 


183 


‘‘ That she should fancy she could not be worthy 
of you. She is thoughtful and sensitive. She is an 
adopted child. Her parents were probably very poor, 
possibly ignorant and degraded. I know, as you 
cannot, how the young people feel who have such a 
heritage. I doubt if she would feel that she had any 
right to take to any man an origin of which he would 
be ashamed.” 

“ Who cares for her origin, Don ? I thought you 
knew me better. I tell you she’s fit for any home 
any man could offer.” 

“Well, Ralph, here we are, and God bless you ! I 
wish you all success, but I think it well for you to be 
warned ; if she will not marry you, the reason will be 
the one I gave.” 

“ Nonsense, Don, you are morbid ; what does it 
matter who her mother and father were ? ” 

Don tliought of the couple lying under the pines, 
and shivered ; but he said no more. How, indeed, 
could one reared like Ralph know what it mattered ? 

The next afternoon Don went to the hut in the 
forest, and found the woman much better; but she 
eagerly took the food he brought ; and she said that 
while they were at the hut her husband’s companion 
had been out with the organ, and that her husband 
had now gone to find him, and that they were to 
go away without fail at night. 


184 


The Amber Star. 


Relieved by the prospect of their departure, he left 
her, promising to find her, and to keep her from suf- 
fering iu R'ew York. 

Ten minutes after the hour for school to close 
he was sauntering along the road by the little white 
school-house, and noticed that the blinds were all 
drawn ; and, walking to the door, found it locked. 
Strange, he thought, that she, with all the children, 
should have left so early. I thought some naughty 
boys always had to be kept behind. Rather chiding 
his tardiness, he yet felt no anxiety, for the sun was 
shining, and the road home lay between fields where 
there would be little chance of annoyance to the girl ; 
and, besides, the organ-grinder had given up his 
plan. 

Reaching the house, Hannah handed him a note, 
saying that the little three-year-old sister of Rebecca 
White, the motherless pupil, who was trying to care 
for her Httle brother and sister, was suddenly taken 
dangerously ill ; that Lina would close school an hour 
earlier, and go to her, instead of coming directly 
to her own home. If the child could be left she 
would come home at night ; if not, she would remain 
till morning. Aunt Hannah was not to be troubled. 
This set Donald’s mind at ease; still, saying nothing 
to Hannah, he went around the river, near the 
White Farm, on his way home, only to find Rebecca 


The Amber Star. 


185 


in great distress. The child seemed to be dying; 
she had looked to Lina for help in this, as she had 
in all trials since the mother died, and Lina had not 
come. 

The little brother had come home early, saying 
the teacher sent him on to tell his sister she would 
be there in half an hour. Two hours were passed, 
the evening was near, and she had not come. 

Don waited for no words. Thoroughly aroused 
and frightened, he strode down the road between 
the house and the school-house, a clear road, except 
at one point, where a belt of forest crossed it for 
a few hundred yards. Here he looked in the sandy 
tract, and the brushwood by the way, for signs of an 
attack and a struggle ; but there was nothing to 
indicate that one had occurred ; but as he hurried 
on, striving to penetrate the hedge of tangled under- 
growth on either side, his ear caught a crackling 
sound, as of twigs under a footstep, and at the same 
moment he saw the crouching form of a man rise 
from a clump of bushes near the road, and plunge 
into the forest with reckless haste. To plunge after, 
to overtake him, to seize him by the arm, then by 
the throat ; to find himself bending over Matteo, like 
St. Michael, strong in all the power of youth and 
right, over the prostrate form of the dragon, was but 
the work of a moment. Struggle was useless; the 


186 


The Amber Star. 


more the ruffian writhed and cursed, the stronger the 
grip at his throat. 

“ Where is the girl ? Wliat have you done with 
the girl ? ” said Don, between his teeth ; “ you 
wretch ! you old brute ! I have had to save her 
from you before. Speak quick, before I kill you ; 
I’ve a great mind to kill you, any way!” and he 
gave the necktie another twist. 

Utterly cowed and trembling, weakened by drink 
and fear, he told, without delay, 

“ She is not hurt; she is in the school-house; Jack 
is watching outside.” 

“Jack, the villain! — is it Jack?” 

“ Yes, but he will not hurt her. I have the key.” 

“ Get it quick, if you want to live ! ” said Don, 
giving his tie another turn. Squirming and twist- 
ing, the man produced the key. 

“We were not going to hurt her ; only to take 
her, after dark, to her mother. She would have 
kept her safe till the man who stole her from me 
would pay.” 

“You brigand! no man ever stole her, unless you 
did.” 

“ She is my child ! ” 

“ You lie ; and if you dare to say it again, I’ll not 
leave a whole bone for you to crawl away with.” 

Poor Don’s nature had the better of grace for 


The Amber Star. 


187 


once ; and if lie restrained his hands, he must let his 
tongue have liberty. 

He never loosened his hold on the throat, but with 
one hand unfastened a strap of leather which the 
man wore about the waist, drew a knife from the 
pocket, and, cutting it in two pieces, used one for a 
handcuff for the hands, which the man placed meekly 
together on promise that the hold on his throat should 
be released. The other piece bound his feet securely 
together ; and then, without a word, away Don tore, 
with all his old newsboy instincts thoroughly aroused, 
and absolutely “ spoiling for a fight.” 

As he bounded on to the steps, before he could fit 
the key in the door, a dark figure sprang from be- 
hind the wood-pile under the window, and ran like a 
deer for the woods. 

The first impulse was to follow, and prevent the 
ruffian’s escape; but a low cry from within decided 
him, and he hastily opened the door. There, in the 
dark, bound to her seat at one of the desks, her hands 
fastened behind her, and a little shawl crowded into 
her mouth and bound around the head, to stifle any 
cries she might attempt to make, sat Lina, the tears 
streaming down her cheeks. 

Donald sprang to release her, but his knife had 
been left in the woods. The cords resisted his 
strength; but with lighted matches he burned one 


188 


The Amber Star. 


bj one the thongs that bound her, talking gently all 
the while ; and, overcome by the excitement, she low- 
ered her head upon the desk, and wept like a child. 

When she recovered herself he would have taken 
her home ; but she begged him to take her instead to 
her pupil. 

“ Rebecca will be so anxious about me, and she 
has trouble enough without that. Then Aunt Han- 
nah will be frightened, and Uncle Loren would 
arouse the town, and have the men punished.” 

“They ought to be punished,” said Don; “and if 
Uncle Loren doesn’t do it, I will.” 

And then, in terror of a public exposure and dis- 
grace, Lina begged that he would keep the secret of 
this attempt, and told him what he already knew, that 
they thought they had a right to her services as their 
child. Don told her of his early acquaintance with 
them and with herself ; and then, before they reached 
the White Farm, she acknowledged that she had 
known him from the first. 

Lina told him of her pity and love for Felicia, and 
Don promised to keep her in sight in Hew York ; 
to see that she did not suffer, and, if possible, to save 
her from a life with the poor wretch to whom she 
seemed so faithfully to cling. 

Conscious of the great sympathy which their child- 
ish experience of sorrow gave them both, and so glad 


The Amber Stab. 


18 {) 


that at last there was some one who knew it all, 
and grateful beyond measure for deliverance, the two 
brave young souls talked of the life of suffering and 
misery so well known to them, and of their desire to 
do as much as possible to make the sad condition of 
the very poor less wretched and degraded. 

But the gentlest talk with Lina did not prevent 
Don’s hastening back to the clump of bushes, where 
he had left Matteo bound. It was as he had feared. 
His companion had released him, and they were 
gone. They had evidently watched the school-house 
all day ; and, when they saw the last children go, had 
entered and surprised Lina in the act of departure, 
and had bound and left her to wait for the darkness 
of the night. 

Don came early next day ; not only to see if he 
could do any thing for the child, but to go with 
Lina to the school. The little one had rallied, and 
some hope had sprung up for her life; but Lina 
looked worn and white. The walk revived her some- 
what ; and at night, when he came again to go with 
her to her home, he had the satisfaction of telling 
her that the cabin in the woods was deserted, and 
that the organ-grinders left on the train for Cler- 
mont, having purchased three tickets for New York. 
But of his own share in their departure he made no 
comment, neither then nor afterward. 


190 


The Amber Star. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Again the summer green changed to crimson and 
gold, and the school was over. Completed, too, were 
the private lessons to Ralph’s sister, Adah, whose 
delight in Lina’s talks of birds and insects, and 
rocks and ferns and flowers, had been a joj to her 
young teacher’s heart. The young girl knew some 
French and German and literature and history ; but 
the world of nature was new to her, and she found 
in it a wondrous charm. 

The boys, brought for a holiday from the city, had 
been so numerous this year, that they overflowed the 
camp. Mrs. Darrell and Lina, who were in constant 
correspondence, felt it a pity that boys only should 
have the healthful life and the country change. 
Then Mrs. Darrell went to Mr. Brace, and told him 
that she would help to select homes for delicate girls 
also. They were to be conflded to Lina’s care upon 
arrival. He called for contributions from the rich 
to enable him to send them, and Lina went about 
and persuaded almost every farmer’s family in the 
township to make a home for one or two. 

The Forest Farm-house was filled in every corner. 


The Amber Star. 


191 


and Abigail shared the joy of seeing the wan cheeks 
grow rosy and bright with the change. 

Lina had worked very hard with and for the girls 
in a multitude of ways, though she did not burden 
Aunt Hannah by bringing them into the house. 
But she kept up the sewing-classes ; she took with 
Mrs. Darrell an oversight of all their life ; she gath- 
ered them for work, for play, to hear a story, to hunt 
for mosses, insects, or flowers. 

And when they were all gone, and winter winds 
were scattering the russet leaves, and the Forest 
Farm-house was shut, and she was alone with Aunt 
Hannah, she was dreary enough. 

Her heart had been much in her work, yet it trie<l 
to fill itself with plans for future labor, hoping thus 
to stifle its hunger and soothe its hurt. For the 
hunger was for love, which she had forbidden it to 
take; and the hurt was given by her own hand, 
wdien she tried to shut love out. 

Ealph had told her of his affection for her, and of 
his desire that she should share his life. Lina had 
had a struggle long and severe. Out of it she came 
with the mistaken, but sincere, conviction that her 
life belonged to Loren and Hannah first, and to 
Felicia after, and then, perhaps, even to the cruel 
man who claimed her for his child. 

Surely her relation to others must determine her 


192 


The Amber Star. 


duties, and gratitude and natural affection bound her 
first to those who had cared for her youth. Now she 
must lighten their old age. When that was done — 
but why think of that ? By that time she would be 
old. She had no right to burden Ralph’s life with 
waiting for her, or if she did not wait, to bring him 
such relations as she knew her father and mother to 
be. Then, again, she had been saved from misery 
and shame — ought not her life to be given to saving 
others? She longed to go to the city, to work as 
Donald did, as Don said she could do if she were 
there. And, so, in this longing, she tried to lose 
the other longing, for a rest in the heart of the man 
she loved. 

“ Ralph would get over it ; Ralph would find some 
one else,” she said to herself ; and then she hated 
herself for feeling as if it would kill her if he did. 

And into these melancholy days came a letter from 
Mr. Lindsay, saying that Adah wanted her dear 
teacher and friend to come to her, and to continue 
to instruct her, and that they were convinced that 
they could find no one who could do for the daugh- 
ter’s mind and heart so well as Lina, if only she could 
come, and for the winter make one of their house- 
liold. Then, in the summer, Adah could go to 
Forest Farm and continue her lessons, thus avoiding 
the interruption to her studies which a change of 


The Amber Star. 


193 


home must otherwise involve. In the branches of 
knowledge which Lina felt herself unqualified to 
teach the two girls could have masters together, and 
Adah would study all the better for Lina’s com- 
panionship and interest in the same pursuit. 

How her heart bounded as her uncle gave her the 
letter to read ! How she hungered and longed to 
go! Loren’s heart sank at the thought of home 
without her, but lie said, “ they had no right to 
narrow and limit her life,” and he thought she ought 
to go. Aunt Hannah had not yet seen the letter, 
and Lina begged that she might not, till she had con- 
sidered its contents; for why trouble her, if all 
ended in her staying at home ^ She took a night to 
think it out, and then decided that it was not right, 
either for Ealph or for herself, to be where life 
would be so hard for him. For herself she could 
bear it ; she would find it joy, and only joy, to be 
under the same roof; but to daily remind him of 
his disappointment would be, so the sensitive girl 
thought, any thing but kind. And so she told her 
uncle she had decided not to go. 

Later came a letter from Ealph himself, urging 
her consent to the plan, for his sister’s sake. He 
was going abroad to prosecute his medical studies; 
Mrs. Darrell seemed feeble; he knew how Lina 

loved her, and Adah needed her sorely ; would she 
13 


194 


The Amber Star. 


not come, so that he might see her once more before 
he left ? 

Then, indeed, it was hard not to go. Then she 
decided to tell Aunt Hannah, and to go, if she gave 
consent. 

But the poor old woman, who had been comforted 
bj Mrs. DarrelPs absence, and had settled back into 
some sense of security and peace, seemed once more 
possessed by the demon of jealousy, and indignant 
sense of injury. “ Another plan and plot to win the 
child away from her — nothing more ! ” She would 
hear no reasoning, could see no advantage. “ If the 
girl chose to go, ’twas no more than one might ex- 
pect ; but she need not trouble her-self to come back. 
If ever they needed her, they needed her now. She 
had no ‘call’ to work. They had adopted her; she 
might expect to inherit all they had. No doubt she 
would give it all away, and go, poor and hungry her- 
self, to feed and clothe beggars; but certainly she 
ouglit not to prefer working for city folks, to serving 
those who had brought her up.” 

Alas ! poor Lina, she gave it up ; Aunt Hannah 
had her way. But there came one day a letter from 
Donald, in which he said that the Italian, Felicia, 
whom he had at once found on his return, and for 
whom, through him, Lina had provided, was free at 
last from Matteo. Her freedom had come by a hard 


The Amber Star. 


195 


process; for, in a drunken moment, he had beaten 
her almost to death, and, in consequence, had been 
sent for a year to Blackwell’s Island. Now she was 
very ill, and her recovery doubtful, and she pleaded 
piteously for Lina. “ Could she come ? ” 

Then Lina went, with Loren as an escort. Aunt 
Hannah was so angry that she would neither speak 
to her or look at her, when she went to say good- 
bye. Loren felt troubled about her mood of silent 
rage, and hurried back as soon as he had seen Lina 
safe in Donald’s care. Donald took her at once 
to the Lindsays, who, overjoyed to see her, seemed 
almost to claim her as their own. 

Balpli was already gone. Felicia, so Don said, had 
been removed to a hospital, where the utmost that 
would be allowed to Lina would be to visit her an 
hour each day. Don had arranged all this, knowing 
that otherwise the girl would take the entire nursing 
upon herself. 

Not knowing how long she might be kept, she 
began the lessons with Adah at once ; and, if charm- 
ing occupation and opportunities to do, to see, and 
to learn could have lightened her burden, she would 
have had a happy heart. Into her life love and 
tenderness flowed from all about her. The enthu- 
siastic little Adah loved her like an elder sister. 
Donald was full of thoughtful care. He took her 


196 


The Amber Star. 


everj-where to see and to share his work among the 
poor. Not a house of refuge for orphans or desti- 
tute children, not an organization for helping people 
to help themselves, for teaching how to work, for 
furnishing work to the needy, or support to the 
feeble, but he took her to study its work and plan. 

Mrs. Darrell was unfailing in tenderness and love 
to her, and the rest the tired heart found, in being 
again freely in her presence, no one could measure. 
She saw her with Donald, interested in all his schemes 
and plans ; with Adah, gentle and faithful ; with lit- 
tle children every-where, a blessing and comfort, and 
felt that she was the ideal mother, and wondered 
what her own life would have been had God given 
her to such a one. Meantime, her poor mamma, 
Felicia, was too ill to see her. Fever had set in, and 
she knew no one. The daily visit was paid, and 
anxiety held Lina in its grasp, so that the edge of all 
her pleasure was blunted by it. Uncle Loren’s letters 
were a comfort to her; he never told her that when 
he reached home the house had undergone a trans- 
formation, and moved backward a dozen years. 
Every trace of the child of his heart was removed. 
Every picture Lina had drawn, every decoration of 
the rooms by which she had gradually changed their 
prim and hard look for the aspect of a home, was 
torn down and put out of sight. Hard and grim the 


The Amber Star. 


197 


very chairs looked, set in a row against the wall. 
The pretty table-cover of cloth, embroidered with 
bright colors, which the child worked with her own 
fingers, was replaced by a dark oil-cloth ; the dainty 
curtains, with a cornice of autumn leaves and pendent 
ferns, were taken down, and the door of Lina’s room 
was locked. 

When he begun to tell of the journey, she shut 
her lips with a snap, then opened them to say : 

“Lorenzo Wilde, I have done with women-folks in 
this house — forever. No good ever came of more 
than one. One’s enough — she gone, and the door’s 
shut.” 

“To be opened again whenever she chooses to 
come home, Hannah,” he answered, firmly ; but she 
made no reply, and from that time, when her letters 
came, she left them on the table unopened, for him 
to read ; and when he spoke of her she never seemed 
to hear. 

But the shadow of this trouble crept, unconsciously 
to himself, out of his letters, and made Lina know he 
was unhappy, though he did his best to keep it from 
her sight. 

Gradually life took, through all these influences, 
new shape in her mind. Her duty to Felicia stood 
first ; to nurse and comfort her when she rallied, to 
be with her at the last if she died. Then to go back 


198 


The Amber Star. 


and give to the home its daughter, and to be to Loren 
and Hannah the stay of their declining years. In 
her thought of this, there was pleasure mingled with 
pain, for she loved Loren, she loved the hills, she 
loved her work in the homes and among the young 
of the region round about. She could be most use- 
ful, if she never knew any life but this, and she did 
not allow her imagination to stray much beyond it ; 
but her heart perpetually strayed toward a time when 
her field of labor should change, and she should 
become a daily worker under the direction of the 
noble men and women who were to live for tl^e up- 
lifting of the lowly, the healing of the suffering, the 
comfort of the distressed. So, in the midst of her 
present studies and labors and cares, she had the joy 
of aspiration for the coming years. As time glided 
on, Felicia slowly crept back to life, and Lina’s min- 
istry seemed to bring to her great comfort and con- 
tent. When able to be removed from the hospital 
to a sunny room, with Donald’s help, Lina brightened 
the place with every comfort, and conscientiously 
nursed her, spending with her the hours the Lindsays 
thought she spent in recreation. To add to her anx- 
iety, she learned in this season that before her illness 
the poor creature had sought forgetfulness of her 
woes in the use of opium, a practice from which no 
tenderness or firmness could save her, now that the 


The Amber Star. 


199 


hospital restraint was removed. She resolved con- 
tinually, and promised continually, hut had no power 
to resist ; so that to leave money with her was out of 
the question, and therefore upon Lina came the care 
of providing for her wants from day to day. 


200 


The Ambek Stae. 


CHAPTEK XXL 

But tlie care of Felicia dropped upon Donald, 
when, one day, a letter came from Loren. Hannah 
had had a fall in descending the stairs, and had so 
injured herself- as to be unable to move from her 
chair. She would not hear of Lina’s being sent for ; 
but Loren thought, if Lina could come, it might be 
best. By the return mail the answer came, and Lo- 
ren had hardly time to drive to Littleton to meet her, 
before she was there. How gladly would he, with 
his own hands, unaccustomed to touch of delicate 
things, have rehung every picture, have replaced 
every bit of moss and fern upon the wall, rather than 
have her know that Hannah had torn them down ; 
but since she must know it, he thought it best to tell 
her. 

“You will find it hard, my child, and I did not 
send for you because we need you to do the work. 
Betsey Jones is there now, but cannot stay; you can 
bring any of your girls that you please, to do that 
which will leave you strength and time for Aunt 
Hannah. But now, if ever, she must be won from 
her bitter mood. We must love her old -heart out of 


The Amber Star. 


201 


its deadness and hardness now in the Lord’s own 
way, or she will never change. She will be angry at 
first that you came ; for she is resolved never to let 
her heart warm toward any one again ; but, secretly, 
she will be glad, first, because she knows you under- 
stand her household ways ; and later, because she 
loves, really loves you, and has missed you sorely 
every day.” 

“ Perhaps I ought never to have left her, uncle,” 
said Lina, ruefully, thinking how little she had been 
able to do for Felicia. 

no, you were right,” said Loren, who was 
glad she had been spared this period at home; “and 
now we will do the best we can, and I shall be- so 
happy to have you back,” he said, throwing his arm 
around her, as he rode on through the woods. She 
dropped her head upon his shoulder, feeling rested, 
she hardly knew why, resolving to drive the worn, 
sad look from his eyes, if it was in the power of love 
to make him glad. 

It is needless to dwell upon the new home life 
that begun under such strange conditions. Hannah 
welcomed her with an angry stare ; and, turning to 
Loren, said, 

“AVell, Lorenzo, that’s just like a man! Here I 
am, tied hand and foot, and you take this time to 
bring home company, a fine lady from the town. 


202 


The Amber Stajj. 


Well, put her in the spare chamber ; but she’ll be 
obliged to wait upon herself if she stays.” 

“ Of course I’ll do that, auntie, for you know I 
couldn’t be company wdiere I’ve always been at 
home ; ” but she had hard work to restrain her tears 
till she w'as beyond Hannah’s sight. And this was 
only the beginning of months of care. 

Hannah was seriously injured ; her face looked 
pinched with pain. She could not die, though she 
said she wished she miglit ; but she might never walk 
again. The most that she could do was to crawl fee- 
bly from bed to chair. But, poor soul, she had her 
trials. Hot to be able to go to the kitchen and scold, 
while others worked ; to have Lina’s hands cook 
and serve her food — was almost more than she 
could bear. Betsey, the woman whom she had been 
forced, much against her will, to receive into her 
kitchen, confided to Lina that sometimes she had 
feared Hannah would die ; tliat she knew she never 
could have been so patient if she hadn’t been “ rip- 
enin’ for heaven.” 

However that may have been, the ripening process 
was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Lina 
upon the scene. But, secretly, she grew glad, as 
Loren had predicted, and secretly she softened, but 
only to grow more grim and harder than ever, if any 
one seemed to detect the softening. Jealousy was 


The Amber Star. 


203 


ever active; and temper, aggravated by pain, often 
bad full sway. 

To be patient and gentle and pitiful was discipline 
for both Lina and her uncle ; but they helped eacli 
other. Each made for the other an atmosphere of 
home-rest and confidence and peace. Again the old 
life in the house and among the young went on ; 
again she sang in the choir, visited the sick, encour- 
aged the studious. It was the old life, only more 
than ever lonely and sad. 

And upon this life broke a new wave of trouble 
for her, inasmuch as it was trouble for her dearest 
friends. Suddenly, in the midst of the vigor and 
strength of a noble manhood, Mr. Lindsay sickened 
and died. Adah begged for her to come ; Mrs. Dar- 
rell asked it, too ; but it was not till he had been 
lying in Greenwood nearly a month that she could 
get away. And then she went to spend two days 
only, beside the darkened hearth. Arrived at the 
railroad station in the city alone, for Loren could not 
go with her this time, she looked anxiously about for 
Donald; but he did not appear. A gentleman in 
black came swiftly through the crowd. “Miss Wilde, 
Lina, since Donald could not be here, I have come 
for you myself.’’ And Ealph, grown stouter and 
older, and changed by his black dress, met her with 
moistened eyes. 


204 


The Ambee Stak. 


“ I arrived only three days ago,” he said ; “ I 
started at once, when I learned that my father was 
ill ; ” he added, talking on to cover her silence, for 
he saw she was too much agitated to speak. Then, 
drawing her hand within his arm, he took her to the 
carriage, and in the darkness she regained her voice, 
though she did not the possession of her hand. 

Strange as it may seem, all the present sorrow, 
which she came to share, all the distress and con- 
straint and pain she had left behind, were lost in the 
full glad consciousness of present joy. He had come 
home; he was near. She could see his face, could 
hear his voice, and for the moment these made all 
of life to her. 

She went through the brightly lighted streets and 
the wide avenues like one blind ; her soul was wan- 
dering in the streets of a new and celestial land, and 
he was beside her there. He had taken possession 
of his kingdom without a word. At the door of his 
home he released her hand, sealing the silence with 
the one word “ mine,” to which her lips answered 
nothing, and her eyes only with a smile. 

In that transcendent hour her misgivings, her 
sense of duty, disappeared into a region of their own, 
but they returned in the hours of converse that fol- 
lowed in the succeeding days. 

She was utterly frank with him, and presented her 


The Amber Star. 


205 


scruples one by one. She told with many tears of 
Matteo and Felicia. 

These are the only parents I know,” she said. 

“ And in the sense that they are yours — yours to 
care for, to uplift, to comfort — they shall be mine 
also,” he replied. 

She told him of Aunt Hannah and Uncle Loren, 
and of her life that belonged to them, while they 
needed it. 

‘‘ Very well, mine shall belong to them also. Till 
you can share my home I will share yours. You 
shall never be taken from them while your duty and 
your love say stay.” 

“ But my work. I have chosen my work. I feel 
that I, from my experience, know how to help the 
little cliildren as one with a happier childhood could 
not know. I have chosen a work in life ; and, happy 
as I am in your love, I should grow restless if I gave 
up this work for my own selfish joy.” 

‘‘And in that work, my darling, I have already 
found my place. You will go among the poor as a 
comforter and friend, I as a healer and teacher. I 
have labored hard at my profession, but I have no 
need to use it for money. With your help I can go 
on as I have already begun, using my knowledge to 
heal, to teach sanitary law, to show the ignorant how 
to avoid disease and consequent suffering. I will be 


206 


The Amber Star. 


tlie apostle of cleanliness, of decent and comfortable 
homes, of good drainage, of nourishing food and pure 
air; you the angel of God’s spiritual truth, which 
cleaner and sounder bodies will be better prepared to 
receive. Your work shall be done, my love ; wull you 
deny me the gladness of striving by your side ? ” 
There was but one shadow on this time, besides 
that of Mr. Lindsay’s recent death, and that was the 
shadow that fell from a long letter that Ralph 
gave Lina from Don, on the night that she arrived. 
Already they had told her of a change in Don’s 
prospects and plans. He had been Mr. Lindsay’s 
confidential manager, and before his death it had 
been arranged that he should be appointed to an im- 
portant post in the business, involving great profits, 
but also great responsibilities. Mr. Lindsay had 
made him joint executor, with Ralph, of his estate, 
showing him the confidence he would have bestowed 
on another son. Ralph told her how glad both he 
and his sister felt, to have their affairs in such faith- 
ful hands, and that it was his purpose to become, 
with Don, a partner in the old firm. “ I furnish the 
capital, Don the labor, and thus I am left free to fol- 
low my profession.” To consult with the European 
branch of the house, on some important issues, it had 
been necessary for one of them to return to London, 
and Don decided suddenly to go. 


The Amber Stab. 


207 


“ lie sailed a week ago, and he left this letter for 
yon,” said Ralph, “ thinking you would be here 
before this time.” 

The letter told her of his fears and hopes, of his 
joy in using his powers in the service of those so 
dear as the Lindsays were to him, and of his manly 
hope to win fortune for himself, that he might use it 
for those who were so unfortunate as to possess nei- 
ther money nor the power to get it. He wrote to 
her as a brother to a sister, of Ralph’s noble conduct 
and support, and of a secret hope that a day might 
.come when he could dare to make a brother’s claim 
upon his love. 

‘‘ I think he knows, for his father knew, of my 
attachment to Adah ; but you know that the same 
reasons that would make you shrink from giving 
yourself to Ralph, should prevent my asking her to 
be my wife. I am nameless, too. I have been home- 
less all my days, but for the home in loving hearts 
that have given me a refuge. As you would not 
know what name to resign for Ralph, so I should 
not know what name to give to Adah, for Donald 
Lawrence is not my name, but a name the newsboys 
and bootblacks gave me when I made my appearance 
as a ragged urchin in their midst. I told them my 
name was Lawrie Donald, and when I became a fa- 
vorite, a little Spanish boy began to say Don Lawrie, 


208 


The Ambek Star. 


whicli name clung to me until I hardly knew whether 
to write Donald Lawrence or Lawrie Donald. And 
I liave so wanted a name that I could feel was my 
own. I have many memories of childish days, mem- 
ories of which I have often wished to talk to you, but 
it is only within a few days that I liave had a clew to 
my early life. Now I have one, but its thread leads 
me to the other side of the sea. And, strange as it 
may seem, the clew came through Felicia. You know 
how superstitious she is, and you know, too, that 
there are days when she would sell her soul for the 
indulgence in opium that she so craves. I have not 
dared to leave her money; but I found her one night 
quaking with cold and terror lest I should come 
and find that she had pawned the blankets from her 
bed. I took the pawn-ticket from her, locked her in 
the room, and went to recover the bedclothes. And 
I took occasion to forbid the broker to accept any 
thing from her again, as she was not in her right 
mind. ‘ I thought not,’ he answered, ‘ for she raved 
like one crazy here at the sight of an old picture.’ 
I persuaded him to tell me more, and he said the 
woman came early in the evening, and offered him a 
Bible, and some old trinket of no value, glass, or per- 
haps amber. But as he Tvas examining them, she 
snatched them from his hand, and began to cry and 
moan, and to talk to this picture, and promised to 


The Amber Star. 


209 


keep these things. He got rid of lier as soon as he 
could, and toward night she came back quietly 
enough, left the blankets, looked around furtively, 
and went away. J felt, Lina, that the opium was the 
cause of the excitement ; but I, nevertheless, asked 
to see the picture. It represents Madonna, with the 
infant Jesus upon her lap, and a little St. John 
against her knee. It was dusty, unframed, black- 
ened, but something in it went to my heart. I 
couldn’t tell when or where, but I had seen that pict- 
ure before. I knew I had seen it. I bought it. I 
took it to Felicia with the blankets. At sight of it 
she trembled and sobbed, and said, ‘ I did not sell 
the Bible, I did not sell the star,’ and begged and 
prayed the Holy Virgin not to look at her out of 
that face with those eyes. I tried to make her give 
to me what she had tried to pawn, but she would not 
part with, or even show me, any thing. Disheartened, 
I left her, but resolved to return and find out wliat 
secret the half-crazed creature had in her heart, or if 
the drug alone was responsible for all this excitement 
and distress. I took the picture out of her sight to 
my room, and there I struggled with my memory of 
it, till it tormented me, so that I sent for an artist 
to examine it. He cleaned it for me, and brought it 
back, and showed me in the comer the artist’s name. 

‘ See,’ he said, ‘ it is a Donaldi,’ and down in the 
14 


210 


The Amber Star. 


corner was written, ‘ K. Donaldi, Roma, 186 — I 
visited the studios, until I found an old artist who 
had known Donaldi, and who told me of his career. 
He had been lost in coming to this country on a 
steamer that was wrecked off the coast in the year 
186 — . He had lived previously some years both in 
Rome and in Florence. He married an American 
wife, and had two children, who probably met their 
fate with him. The pawnbroker had bought this 
picture with a lot of rubbish, at a customs sale of 
articles that had never been claimed, and I after- 
ward found recoi’d of it as unclaimed baggage 
on a steamer that sailed three weeks after the ill- 
fated boat. How, dear Lina, this is my only clew; 
but I believe that it will lead me to some knowl- 
edge of myself and my history. I am going to take 
a month to go into Italy. If the artist left his family 
in Italy, I can surely find them ; but that Felicia has 
some association with them I must believe. What it 
is I must leave you to discover. By watching her 
closely, you may find her mind clear ; and I think 
her love for you may make her yield the articles 
which her superstition would not let her pawn. One 
is a Bible, and I do not know what more. Whatever 
she knows of the picture, it is, of course, associated 
with you ; and I have written all, that you may not 
lose any chance with her in her varying moods. I 


The Amber Star. 


211 


found the passengers’ list of the ill-fated boat, and no 
mention was made of Donaldi’s family, though his 
name appeared upon the steerage list.” 

That the letter almost drove the gladness from her 
heart for the time, by the knowledge it revealed of 
the condition of Felicia, was not strange. IS^o sleep 
came to her, torn as she was by conflicting emotions 
of joy for herself and sympathy for Don ; and pity 
for the wretched Felicia filled her heart, to the exclu- 
sion of any hope for happy discoveries through her 


means. 


212 


The Ambee Stae. 


CIIAPTEK XXII. 

When Kalph communicated the new joy that had 
come in the track of his sorrow for his father’s loss, 
Mrs. Darrell’s patient eyes were full of happy tears. 
Adah’s delight was like that of a child, that now the 
friend who had been like a sister to her would be 
such in name as well as in heart. Only one cloud 
dimmed the days, and that was the sudden disappear- 
ance of Felicia from her home. When Lina went to 
make her first visit to her she was gone. People in 
the house told her Matteo was released, and had per- 
suaded her to go away, after staying with her in the 
house awhile. If this were true, then she had gone of 
her own free will, and there was nothing to do but to 
wait till she came back again, as, sooner or later, she 
was sure to do. Notwithstanding this cruel anxiety, 
she went back to Hannah with her heart so fiooded 
with the sunshine of love, that she was prepared to. 
gild with it any cloud that might await her there. 
But, strange to say, when she bent her gentle face 
down over Aunt Hannah’s chair, the old woman’s 
eyes fiooded with tears, and she put up her wrinkled 
hands as if to . warm them by the soft warmth of 


The Amber Star. 


213 


tlie girl’s velvety cheeks, aud drew her face down 
and kissed her. It was the first since she kissed her 
own mother’s coffined face, a half-century ago. Poor 
old stricken souL! she would be ashamed of it to- 
morrow, may be, and be more severe than ever to the 
girl ; but just now she was weak and nervous. And 
she had missed her so ! Only to have her back, she 
did not care at what price ; for the days and nights 
were endless when Lina was away ! 

But, strange to say, though Hannah was as bashful 
as a school-girl, when she saw her next she was no 
longer hard. The pent-up fioods of a heart’s whole 
life time were too strong for the weakened barriers 
of jealousy and distrust, and they broke and swept 
around her brother and the girl with a force that 
showed how narrow was the channel, as well as how 
deep the stream. 

She began to be better now ; and when Ralph came 
and sat beside her chair, and told her he wanted Lina 
to be his wife, a scared, anguished look came to her 
face, but none of the fierce and jealous anger which 
they feared. “ So they would take her away from 
her, after all!” She felt it at first, but, marvel of 
grace, she shut her lips together, and never said one 
word. 

From her closed lids the tears crept forth, and her 
throat worked convulsively, when Ralph said. 


214 


The Amber Star. 


“ I want to ask you not only to give me your child, 
but to give me a home as well. Lina will never 
leave you ; I never wish her to leave you ; but I do 
want you to give me a place here, too. Let me come 
and live with you ; I cannot bear to be shut out of 
the place where she is to stay, and I promise you, 
she will be to you the same daughter as ever, and I 
will be to you a son.” 

And Hannah was not very slow in making up her 
mind. Secretly, she was glad enough to shout ; but 
habit was strong, and she only answered, 

W ell, Lina is a good girl, a sight too good for 
any man; but she seems to like you, and if you 
think you could put up with all our ways, why, I’ve 
no objections; but there’s Loren, he owns half the 
farm, and he isn’t used to having men folks about ; 
but” — she added, with a final gasping effort — “if 
Loren’s willing, I be.” 

And then she leaned back in her chair, and went 
to sleep ; and Halph went to report progress of his 
wooing to Lina and Loren on the porch. 

“Great doin’s,” the neighbors said, “at Forest 
Farm ! ” The old house seemed to have taken a fit 
of growing, and two long wings spread back into the 
forest, ending in two octagonal towers, inclosing an 
enormous court. 


The Amber Star. 


215 


“What under the sun that city chap who was 
hangin’ round Squire Wilde’s was agoin’ to do with 
a house big enough to hold all creation,” was a prob- 
lem discussed in field and family and by many a 
farm-house fire. There were various views ; but the 
old heads “ reckoned he knew what he was about,” 
and thought he “seemed to be pretty consid’able 
smart for a feller raised in the city ; ” and perhaps 
they were not far from right. 

Loren had given to Lina the Forest Farm-house, 
and Ralph was widening its borders, that it might 
make a summer-home for children of the city tene- 
ment house-population of the most needy sort. 

One octagon tower held a chapel, the other a 
school-room and library, where maps and charts, and 
cabinets, for their botanical, geological, or entomo- 
logical specimens awaited the collection and arrange- 
ment of the children’s own hands. An airy, sunny 
hospital room for the sick, a great barrack of a play- 
room for rainy days, a wing for weary mothers with 
feeble babes — all were comprised under this hospit- 
able roof. The plan included mothers, boys, and 
girls, and especially working girls, whose wages were 
needed at home, and whose holidays never came. 
The first year was supposed to give sufficient training 
in decent manners and cleanly ways to make it possi- 
ble that for the second year the women should be 


216 


The Amber Star. 


recommended to farmers’ homes; and boys, whose 
good behavior warranted it, might live in forest 
camps. When admitted to homes, the board of the 
children might be paid by the Forest Farm fund, 
and they were still under the protection and super- 
vision of the home, and yet room would be made for 
new inmates each year. Warm, young hearts were 
in the scheme, and busy hands and heads were full 
of its details. And no one was more eager to plan, 
more fruitful in sensible suggestion, than was Aunt 
Hannah Wilde. It was her idea that the girls’ home 
should include an industrial department, where they 
should be taught practically to cook, and to perform 
other domestic tasks, while the boys were taught the 
use of tools. 

Her strong sense and aggressive spirit delighted in 
opposing and contradicting their enthusiastic but 
sometimes impractical plans, showing how proposed 
methods could not be used, then suggesting other 
methods by which their views could be carried out. 
She took comfort in declaring the project would be 
quite ruined by bad management, especially when 
she knew Mrs. Darrell was to have the home in 
charge. Grace and love had not included Mrs. Dar- 
rell yet, but what Betsey called the “ ripenin’ ” process 
was going on. Grace and love were at their work. 
She was still angry when she thought of the Amher 


The Amber Star. 


217 


Star^ and her pride arose fiercely, bidding her upon 
that subject forever to be still. 

“ Time enough for Esther to have her when I’m 
dead and gone,” she would say to herself, with a 
spiteful shake of her head. “ Then I’ll let the hea- 
then bauble be found. Esther has a very comfort- 
able life. She don’t have to sit still and ache in 
all her bones. She can do without the girl far 
better than I can. She’s got a good home, and 
friends and folks enough without Lina, and Lina’s 
got folks enough without her ! ” 

So she hardened her heart and eased her con- 
science by resolving to leave to Lina all her 
property — “ every red cent — farm, government bonds, 
and all.” 

It was June when the building was ready for oc- 
cupancy. Mrs. Darrell and Adah and Mr. Beech, 
who was to help care for the boys, were already 
there. Already the groups of boys had taken pos- 
session of camps upon the hills, and pale-faced girls 
might be seen gathering the way-side ferns. There 
was great activity among the village people, among 
the young people, particularly, and the children of 
the village school. 

Lina’s friends were all astir at the chapel, and 
committees of young women received and distributed 
the boughs of the maples, and armfuls of evergreen 


218 


The Amber Star. 


with which the boys came plunging down from the 
woods from Forest Hill. The “Summer-house” was 
soon to be formally opened, and the clergy and dis- 
tinguished representatives of philanthropic endeavor 
were to come and make speeches, and prayers, and 
give the enterprise a little patronizing and friendly 
pat of approval; but this was quite another affair, 
just a little happy home-time among themselves and 
the neighboring farmers and the children, the boys 
and girls who were so fortunate as to be among the 
tii'st sent out from town. And Don’s own boys, who 
came year after year, were among his most active 
helpers in caring for the new-comers. 

What joyful days of preparation they were! Halph 
had been much of the time at Forest Farm since the 
work began, with Abigail to look after his comfort, 
and Lina, so near, to be the joy of his leisure hours. 
He had personally supeintended every detail of the 
preparations ; and now, when the last night had 
come, he fetched Lina and Loren to go over the 
building with him, to see how lovely it all looked in 
its garniture of green. 

The old Forest Farm-house had been left intact, 
much to the disgust of the village gossips, who could 
not understand how a man could spend his money to 
build a house “ big enough for all creation,” and not 
put a cent’s worth of any thing new in the part 


The Amber Star. 


219 


which he meant for his bride. And such a wife as 
Lina Wilde would make, too; “nothing was too 
good for her.” Yet it looked .very cozy and home- 
like in the room where the table was laid for tea. 
As Abigail gave her last touch to the table, she said 
to herself, with a satisfied air : 

“ Well, if elbow grease would ’er filled it with new 
furniture and picters, I’d a done it ; but elbow grease 
was all I had to give. Lord knows I haint stinted 
them for that ! ITot one on ’em will ever see that it 
makes an atom o’ difference, not an atom, but I’ve the 
comfort o’ knowin’ it’s clean.” 

Mrs. Darrell was in the tea-room, and Adah, and 
good Mr. Beech, who on the morrow was to perform 
the ceremony that made Ralph and Lina one. 

They waited tea for Donald, who had sailed in 
time for the wedding, and who should have been 
here twenty-four hours ago, and must surely arrive 
to-night. But when Amos came back from the 
station, and no Donald, they began to be troubled, 
and Adah's face was very grave. 

“ Never mind, sister, there are yet two trains, 
and he will never disappoint us,” said Ralph ; “ it 
is not like Don, to do that. Besides, I had a dis- 
patch from him this morning which I was to keep 
secret; but since you are anxious, I will show it 
to you.” 


220 


The Amber Stab. 


He produced it from his pocket, and the two girls 
seized it, both eager to read at once. 

“ May be delayed to find bridal gift for Lina. 
How is Adah? Shall be in time.” 

“ There, now,” he said, pinching Adah’s blushing 
cheek; “take your tea in peace. You see he is in 
Hew York, and is bewildering himself in search of 
an offering fit for the queen of ^^feteP 


The Amber Star. 


221 


CHAPTEK XXIII. 

Much as she dreaded to meet Mrs. Darrell, Aunt 
Hannah would gladly have gone over herself to see 
the new place in all its festal array ; but she feared 
that if she went to-night, she would not be able to go 
over for the wedding on the morrow. She could with 
great difficulty go from room to room ; and, seating 
herself by the window in the room where Loren’s 
mother died, her hands folded over her knitting work, 
she followed the carriage with her eyes iintil it was 
out of sight. 

She had grown very old. Her hair, of an iron-gray 
color, softened somewhat the hard features of her 
face, which had lost much of its severity under the 
repeated touches of pain. As she sat thus all alone, 
her thoughts went back to the day when Loren 
brought the little stranger home ; ay, farther still, to 
the time when his mother sat here and looked out 
upon the hills. 

She remembered all his patient, noble ways, and 
a great pang smote her that she, who could and 
should have helped him to be happy, had always ham- 
pered and harassed his life. She had not let him 


222 


The Ambee Stae. 


have Esther’s love ; she had not let him enjoy, with- 
out a strong admixture of human bitterness, the love 
of the child he had found. She had — even by her 
own silence, when she should have spoken — by her 
mean act, kept the child from her mother, while she 
gave her no motherly love herself. 

Memory and conscience joined hands to smite her, 
and under their scourgings, for her selfish loves and 
hates, she bowed her head at last and wept. ‘‘At 
last, at last she would undo it, if she could. She 
would even own it all to Loren, if she must.” Slowly 
she rose, and, taking the lamp in one hand, made her 
way with tottering steps to the staircase. Up she 
went, painfully and wearily, one step at a time ; on 
to Ljna’s room, through the corridor, and then out 
to the chamber over the shed. A gust of wind blew 
out the lamp. 

Trembling from head to foot, she paused. Were 
they coming ? No ; it was the willow on the win- 
dows of Lina’s room. She fumbled for a match, 
opened a high draw^er of an old chest, felt about in 
the corner with her withered hands. Again and 
again she tried, her face growing momentarily more 
whiti^ and haggard ; but what she sought for was 
no longer there — the little Amber Star was gone ! 

Bowed as if years had been added to her life, she 
crept back again, more helpless now than ever. 


The Amber Star. 


223 


She could not atone. She could give back the 
child, but the proof was gone. Utterly burdened 
in mind, and wearied in body, she sat down again, 
and saw the moonlight flooding the mountains with 
peace. 

Moving flgures came up the walk. Loren’s broad 
shadow fell upon the porch alone;- behind him the 
loitering lovers came. 

“We lingered a little, for we thought Donald 
would arrive before we left,” said Lina, fearing that 
she Iiad left Aunt Hannah too long alone. Hardly 
had she spoken, when the sound of wheels and voices 
were heard. 

“ He has come, Lina ; Donald has come,” said 
Adah, hurrying in : “ and he was so disappointed 
that you did not wait ! He said lie must see Lina 
to-night. So here we are;” and as Don came in, 
followed by a lady, Lina, surprised and half-fright- 
ened, rose to meet Mrs. Darrell, and led her toward 
her aunt. Lina pressed her hand. 

“ Don't be frightened,” whispered Mrs. Darrell ; 
“ Donald would not let me stay beliind ; he said he 
liad a gift for you, and he wanted me to hear him 
make his presentation speech.” 

“ The children all seemed so happy to-night,” she 
said, gently bending above Aunt Hannah’s chair, 
“that I thought, since you could not come over to 


224 


The Amber Star. 


rejoice witli me, I must come to rejoice with you. I 
hope I don’t intrude.” 

The old lady took both her hands in Iiers, and 
while they were all busy greeting Donald, she said, 
her voice trembling with emotion : 

“I do rejoice with you in all their joy, and” — their 
eyes met — “ in yours, Esther ; yes, in yours ! ” 

“ 1^0 welcome for me. Aunt Hannah ? ” broke in 
Donald ; and before she could resist, he stooped down 
and kissed her. 

“ That’s not fair,” said Adah, pushing him aside ; 
“ he’s a selfish boy, always stealing the sweets ; ” and 
she kissed the old lady on both her cheeks, and 
straightened her cap, and patted her wrinkled hands. 

“ Can’t help it. Aunt Hannah ; I feel like a boy 
to-night ; like having a rousing fire and lots of apples, 
and sitting around and telling stories.” 

Loren began at once to poke the coals, for, June 
though it was, the room was cool ; and they soon had 
a light crackling blaze in Loren’s room, which had 
never seen so merry a party before. 

Adah threw herself into a low seat at Aunt Han- 
nah’s knees. And Don, opposite, watched her face 
with a tenderness full of meaning. 

Loren suddenly rose, and wheeling Aunt Hannah’s 
chair, as he had often done his mother’s, into the 
center of the circle, he took his seat beside her, and 


The Amber Star. 


225 


took one of her wrinkled hands, and held it in a 
strong, loving clasp, as never once he had held it in 
his life. 

Lina drew her seat to his side ; and, as if to get 
away from the lire, but in reality to save Hannah 
from the necessity of constantly seeing her face, Mrs. 
Darrell moved back, just within the shadow of the 
open door. 

And the fire burned cheerily, and made weird 
figures on the wall behind them, and for a moment 
silence fell. Each was busy with thoughts that others 
could not share, and then said Don, briskly : 

‘‘ Come now, I’m in just the mood for a story, and 
if no one tells me one, I must tell one myself.” 

Well, let’s have it, Don,” said Halph. 

“ Something with a good ending, though,” said 
Adah ; “ and something that begins with ‘ once upon 
a time.’ ” 

Don laughed, and looked for a moment as if he 
were searching for a subject in Adah’s eyes; then 
suddenly changing his tone and manner to one of 
deep feeling, he said : 

“You all wonder, dear friends, that I am so happy 
to-night, as if the fact that two of those dearest to 
me are so glad were not enough of itself to make me 
glad also ; as if the fact that I, who know what it is 

to be a homeless boy, seeing what a home has been 
15 


226 


The Ambee Stae. 


built for the homeless, what a mother,” glancing at 
Mrs. Darrell, ‘‘ God has given to welcome the moth- 
erless, could fail to rejoice with all my heart.” 

“ Hear, hear ! bravo, bravo ! ” said Ralph, who felt 
the tearful earnestness in Don’s voice, and did not 
want to cry himself. 

Don laughed, and went on : 

“ If I feel like a boy to-night, and during the rest 
of the years of my life, it is only my right ; for I was 
defrauded by poverty and pain of my real childhood, 
and feel now it has been given back to me ; as if I 
had, in my admission to this little circle, mother, sis- 
ter, brother, friend, and home. To make some of the 
ties so strongly felt by me, felt also by you, is one 
of the objects of my story.” 

“ Look out, Adah,” said Ralph, shaking his finger 
threateningly ; there’s only one way he can become 
a brother to me, and I wont give you to him.” 

For a moment Adah blushed, and hung her head ; 
then lifting her lids roguishly, she said : 

“ Too late. Master Ralph, too late ! ” 

“ Hush, Ralph ! you must not interrupt,” said 
Lina, raising a warning finger. “ Go on, Donald ; 
don’t mind him.” 

Donald, somewhat embarrassed, continued, and 
soon tearful eyes were following him, as he told how, 
on the night after he landed, finding he had some 


The Amber Star. 


227 


time on his hands, he went to seek a poor Italian 
friend, whom he had left in circumstances of great 
distress^ “ I found her alone, very ill, greatly agi- 
tated and distressed, afraid to die, for she said she 
was afraid to meet the Mother Mary, to whom she 
had always prayed for consolation in her sorrows, 
believing that her life had been so hard, that the Vir- 
gin mother would console and pity when she died : 
‘ But now she is angry with me,’ she cried, ‘ and when 
I sleep her face comes before me, and accuses me of 
wronging the Child Jesus. I dare not shut my eyes, 
for I always see her face.’ 

“ She was fast going, and I soothed her, and led 
her to tell me what was the burden on her heart.” 

Then followed a rapid outline, in her own words, 
of the life of Felicia and the child, beginning on 
shipboard, telling of the years with Matteo, and the 
disappearance and final discovery of the girl in a 
farm-house, by wandering organ-grinders, of whom 
Felicia herself was one. 

‘‘ ‘When the child came to me, around her neck was 
a little Amber Star. I did not take it off, and when she 
disappeared she wore the little star. When I discov- 
ered her in the house among the mountains,’ she said, 
‘ when she soothed and nursed me through the night, 
and promised to care for me always, if I left her an 
address, I wanted to leave one. But morning came. 


228 


The Amber Star. 


and she did not come back again. A woman called 
me, and said it was time to go. She gave me time to 
dress myself, and in my desire to find a bit of paper 
on which I could write, I looked in the drawers of an 
old desk that stood against the wall. I found a pencil 
and a crumpled envelope, and hastily wrote the ad- 
dress, and left it at the edge of the open drawer ; but 
I found, also, in feeling about the drawer, a trinket 
in the corner, a little yellow star. It gleamed like 
gold, and I hid it in my dress, and took it away. 
Afterward, I remembered, and knew it was the 
child’s, and I meant to return it to her with the Bible, 
which I had always managed to conceal from Matteo. 
But when she came to visit me in sickness, so gentle, 
so kind, I could not bear to let her know how I had 
deceived her. I feared she would not love me any 
more ; and now, now I would go on my knees to her 
all the way to the hills, to give back the Bible and 
the star.’ 

“ Then I told her,” added Donald, “ to trust them 
to me, and promised solemnly to restore them to the 
owner, and to aid her in every way to find her family 
and friends. Eagerly, but feebly, she groped under 
her pillow ; and when I drew forth the parcel for 
her, and held it where she could see and touch it, the 
poor old creature smiled, and, murmuring broken 
pleadings to Maria, Madre Consolata, died. 


The Amber Star. 


229 


“ I kept the parcel before her fading sight till her 
eyes closed. Here it is.” 

A moment, later he laid it in Aunt Hannah’s lap. 

“ It should be your hands,” he said, gently, with a 
glance that included Loren, “ from which she should 
receive her name, since it was you who bestowed on 
her your own.” But Hannah only clutched the parcel 
nervously, and fumbled it as if bewildered and blind. 

She could not speak ; and Adah, fearing the effect 
of excitement so intense, diverted attention from her, 
and let them all down from the emotion that threat- 
ened tears, by saying, 

‘‘ How, Donald, I protest ! You begin by playing 
the bo}^, and end by assuming the patriarch, and set- 
ting us off in hysterics, instead of settling us com- 
fortably in families. Who wants to unearth rela- 
tives? Hot Lina, I am sure” — Lina had not lifted 
her face from her hands — “ for here am I for a sister, 
and she has her Aunt and Uncle Loren.” 

She had always called Hannah, Aunt Loren,” 
and Hannah, strange to say, had always been pleased 
to hear her. 

“ And yet Donald must go rummaging the world 
for a host of relations. Let’s have them all out at 
once, please ! Speak quickly, if you are prepared to 
pour upon the poor child unnumbered parents and 
cousins and aunts.” 


230 


The Amber Star. 


“ I have found a brother for her, Adah, though I 
am not certain he will prove worth taking.” 

Lina raised her head quickly, and a little stir of 
expectancy ran through the group. 

“He was a naughty boy, who ran away from a 
kind old lady who gave him a home, and joined his 
father on a sea voyage to America. The ship went 
down oS the coast of Newfoundland; but an old 
sailor saved the lad and took him to New York. He 
brought him ashore in his arms, and his heart clung 
somehow to the child, who in all the wide world had 
no other friend to whom he could turn for care. 
But he was too small to be taken to sea ; so Jack, to 
make sure of not losing him, pricked an anchor in 
his arm, and cut a section from a little star the child 
wore on his neck, and sewed the piece in the bottom 
of his tobacco-pouch, and then left him with a woman 
who kept a seaman’s boarding-house, and gave her 
his last penny to care for the child till his return. 
She took the money, and abused the boy almost be- 
fore his protector was out of sight of land. Then he 
ran away, which probably the sailor foresaw he would 
do when he cut a point or two from the star. 
That sailor was trace'd through the records on the 
company’s books in Glasgow, as to who of the 
wrecked ship’s crew were saved. His heroic efforts 
for others before the ship went down were re^Dorted 


The Amber Star. 


231 


by some of tlie saved. He is now tlie captain of a 
steamer of the same line ; and the boj^ now grown a 
man, waited in Glasgow for his ship to make that 
port. They compared their recollections, and joined 
their fragments of an Amber StarJ^ 

All listened intently as Donald went on — each 
watching his face as if there wem no other listener. 

“How, you remember the picture at sight of 
which the Italian woman was afraid, do you not ? It 
was a picture of a ‘ Holy Family,’ and the artist had 
used as a model for the Madonna, the face of his 
wife, the mother of the children at her knees. That 
picture was marked ‘ Donaldi — Roma, 186 — .’ In the 
Bible yonder is the name of Lina’s father. It is the 
same.” 

A sudden start, a gasp, and Mrs. Darrell sat gazing 
at Donald with white, scared face and dilated eyes; 
but no one noticed either start or look, so intent were 
all upon the tale he told. 

“ That same boy had forgotten the name, but he 
remembered, dimly, the mother’s face. He went to 
Rome. He found the house in whicli Donaldi lived ; 
the studio where he worked ; the balcony where the 
children played. But he did not find his mother or 
the baby sister there. He found them, however, re- 
ported as having sailed for Glasgow. In Glasgow 
he learned that they had sailed for America. He 


232 


The Amber Star. 


was able to follow liis sister to tins country, to these 
mountains, and here ” — here his voice faltered brok- 
enly — “ to this — fireside, and — ’’ but before he could 
go on Lina was at his side, in his arms. He held 
her in silence a moment, and only a low sound of sup- 
pressed sobbing was heard. 

“ I believe I could bring you a far better gift, sis- 
ter,” he added, tenderly, as he gave her back to Loren. 
I hoped to find our mother, too ; I pictured often the 
hour when I should bring her to you ; but though I 
traced her from Italy to Scotland, from Scotland to 
Hew York, and from the steamer to the hospital, I 
lost here there. The registers were at my disposal, 
but the name ‘ Donaldi ’ was not there. W e have 
both known motherly love and kindness such as many 
children who have not been orphaned never knew ; 
but for a sight of our mother’s face — well, we must 
wait for heaven for that I ’ 

Then heaven is much nearer than we think, dear 
Don,” said Kalph, rising hastily, and laying his hand 
on Donald’s arm. Sit down, Dou — sit down ; I 
want to tell a story myself.” 


The Amber Stab. 


233 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

All drew a long breath of relief, and Ralph, in 
his rapid, eager way, began : 

“When I was abroad, haunting the hospitals, I 
stopped for a time in Glasgow, waiting for another 
medical student to join me for a tour through the 
Highlands; and one Sunday, as I was coming out 
from church, a sudden shower arose, and an aged 
woman, wrapped in a long cloak, slipped and fell on 
the damp pavement. And I had* the good fortune 
to pick her up, and to offer the protection of my arm 
and my umbrella to her door. Before we reached it 
she seemed to be suffering, and when I told her I 
was a physician, she consented to let me examine 
and bandage her wrist, which she had sprained severe- 
ly, but which she had concealed beneath her cloak. 
This little service led to an acquaintance, almost to a 
friendship ; for the old lady seemed to take a great 
fancy to me, especially when slie learned that I was 
a stranger far from home. She was an odd mixture 
of unrelenting integrity and a severe sort of tender- 
ness and care. It was not long before she con- 
fided to me that she ought to have a laddie of her 


234 


The Ambee Stab. 


own to lean upon now she was old. Slie had two, 
but they were both drowned in the sea ; and since 
she knew it, her old heart had been — ‘sair, sair, 
always sair and lane’ — and she had a soft heart 
toward the ‘ laddies wha had nae hame.’ She was 
old ; she had a moderate fortune ; she meant to leave 
it in trust to be used for bairns ; but first, she needed 
to know if one of her ‘ ain ’ did not leave behind a 
widow and a child. If these were living, she must 
care for them ; if dead, she must care for many 
bairns, to atone for being over hard with her ain! 
Little by little she told me she had been so full of 
fear for their souls, that she had driven them ‘ awa’ 
from hame.’ She gave me names, and besought my 
aid in finding if the widow and daughter of her 
nephew were in New York. Her nephew’s name 
was Donaldi. His boy was called Lorenzo Donaldi. 
His mother called him Lorrie — (Loren gave Esther a 
grateful glance — she had at least cared enough to 
give her boy his name) — which the old aunt spelled 
Lawrie, and said he should grow up without the 
foreign terminations, simply Lawrie Donald, which 
was Scotch enough even for her. She mourned for 
this child as her heart’s last hope ; and without for a 
moment associating him with my Don Lawrie, I yet 
came home, promising to make all inquries concern- 
ing his mother and sister. I traced her as Donald 


The Amber Star. 


235 


did to the hospitals; I went farther. I found the 
city death records of that year contained several en- 
tries of that name. I wrote that the clew to the 
wddow of Koberto Donaldi ended at the hospital 
gate; that probably the mother was dead, and that 
the child could not be found. Not long after, news 
came to me of the old lady’s sudden death. If, 
within a certain time no heir was discovered, the 
property was to be devoted to the purpose she had 
named to me. 

‘‘ Meantime advertisements for descendants or re- 
lations of Miss Margery Carruth appeared in both 
English and American journals. To one appearing 
in the New York Times of recent date, the executor 
in Glasgow received the following reply, dated New 
York, April 20, 186 — . It is written by a lady who 
claims to be the widow of Roberto Donaldi, who 
herein declares her belief that her daughter is now 
living, and begs that the disposition of the estate 
be deferred until the identity of this child may be 
clearly proved. For herself, the mother asks nothing 
from the estate; but she pleads wuth great earnest- 
ness for delay in behalf of this child. She gives the 
events of her own life since her husband’s death, ex- 
plains the circumstances under wliich she came to 
be known by an assumed name, forwards her maiden 
name, and a copy of her marriage certificate. If we 


236 


The Amber Star. 


find the writer of that letter, Donald, we have found 
your mother, and the maiden name given here is the 
one written in Lina’s Bible, and the signature of tliis 
letter is, ‘ Esther Burgess Donaldi.’ So you see, my 
dear Don, that your mother is this side heaven ! ” 

‘‘ Thank God ! ” said Don, fervently ; “ but where ? 
Surely some one must know ! ” And while he spoke, 
Hannah’s tall figure rose from her seat, and her long 
arms reached out toward the corner where Mrs. Dar- 
rell sat trembling and shivering in the dark, 

‘‘ There she is, children ; God knows her, and I 
know her ! ” And she sank back in her seat, say- 
ing, in husky tones, “Go to your mother, Lina; 
Esther, take back your child ! ” 

But Esther only gazed with a strange light in her 
countenance, as if she had seen a heavenly vision, 
and her lips trembled and made no sound ; and, be- 
fore Lina could spring to her embrace, she had faint- 
ed in the arms of her son. 

Softened as it had been for her ear, the joyful 
story was too much for her full heart to bear. The 
children’s arms were around her, and their kisses fell 
on her icy hands. But it was not until Don gathered 
her up in his strong arms, and carried her out on the 
porch, that her heart gave to her new joy the answer 
of words and tears. Here they sat silent under the 
stars, till Adah stole away from Kalph’s side by the 


The Ambek Star. 


237 


window, and came and stood demurely by Donald^s 
side. He threw one arm about her and she knelt 
down in the moonlight and said, in the sweet, child- 
like way that won and held all hearts, 

“Please to take me in, too, for I am going to be 
one of your children soon.” 

The mother lifted happy eyes to those of her son, 
who answered with a smile, and then she took the 
bright face in her hands and kissed it. 

“ Three children ! it is more than a heartful, is it 
not?” 

“No, leave room for me, too,” said Kalph, “or 
I will run away with Lina, and leave you only 
two ! ” 

“ Ah ! your place was made long ago, dear Ralph,” 
she said ; and, looking up, she saw Loren and Hannah 
standing at the window behind them. Esther arose 
and went to them. 

“ I cannot thank you, Hannah,” she said ; and Han- 
nah, with a touch of her old manner, broke fortli : 

“ Don’t try, Esther ; no thanks to me ; I didn’t let 
any good news get to you a minute ’fore I was 
obleeged to ; I’m a kind of cross-grained old maid ; 
but I feel as if you and Loren and all the rest were 
my children and grandchildren, and had come home 
for Thanksgiving.” 

And, afraid of showing any more feeling, she 


238 


Tue Amber Star. 


hobbled away to her bedroom. Lina stole in and 
tenderly cared for her, as usual, and kissed her good- 
night with a silent hug, and when she came back, 
her mother was in Loren’s mother’s chair, and he 
was talking to her. ■ 

‘‘ My cup runneth over,” she said ; “ I have all my 
heart’s desire.” 

“ Is it so ? Then if you are happy, I am content ! ” 

Glad in her gladness, he did not know he had at- 
tained any thing above the common experience of 
life ; yet he knew the noblest type of love. There 
were volumes to be talked to each other, yet they 
were strangely silent, sitting in the moonlight now 
that the fire was done. It was not very late, though 
they seemed to have lived years since the mountain- 
tops were red with the light of the setting sun. 

“How wonderfully has God brought us,” said 
Loren, as they parted at midnight. “ Can we, who 
have seen our dear ones brought up out of the depths, 
do enough for the children whose only cradle is the 
Everlasting Arms, and who suffer so sorely before 
they reach even that ? ” 

“ Ho, we can never do enougli, mother mine,” said 
Donald; “but we have made it our life-work, and 
we mean to carry on our hearts as many of His little 
ones as we can bear.” . . . 

Many children’s voices sang the wedding hymn 


The Am bee Stae. 


239 


that June morning, when Ralph and Stella and 
Donald and Adah were wed. 

The chapel was lovely in its garniture of leaves 
and ferns, and little girls strewed the path of the 
bridal party to the altar with flowers gathered by 
their own hands from meadow and brookside and 
wood. 

Aunt Hannah, in a cap that she called a ‘‘ city 
notion,” sat stately in a great arm-chair, wheeled to 
her place by an escort of Donald’s boys. 

Esther’s pale face shone with a strange tender joy, 
and Loren looked the noble gentleman he w^as, as he 
gave Ralph’s bride away. They were fair brides to 
look upon ; and as they passed down the aisle, Han- 
nah’s sharp eyes caught in Esther’s hair the gleam of 
a little golden star. 

It was a strangely peaceful hour, for to almost 
every soul since y ester-morn had opened a new world. 
Hew conditions and relations and facts surrounded 
'them ; they had entered new realms of love and in- 
spiration, which should flood with benediction the 
lives of others, simply from their own hearts’ over- 
flow. The hour was like a seal set on the old life ; 
like a seal broken to the unread pages of the new. 

After the greetings w’ere over, and the village 
guests had gone to the feast in the great hall below, 
Ralph drew Lina away from the little group in her 


2i0 


The Amber Star. 


mother’s parlor, to a staircase that led them to tlie 
floor above the octagon chapel. Opening a door 
before her, he said, gently : 

“Come home, Stella, my star! We are going to 
stay at Aunt Hann^i’s when we are in the country ; 
for you know I promised not to take you from her ; 
but I thought I would make up here above the chapel 
a nest for my bird^ whenever she wants to be, indeed, 
at home. See, it is alone, away from the bustle of 
the house, yet near enough for all its w^ork.” 

Too happ 3 ^ for any thing but bewildered looks and 
smiles, she followed througli the tiny suite of rooms, 
the library fllled with books and dainty pictures, with 
a desk by the window that overlooked the hills ; the 
dining-room only large enough for very few and 
not too large for two — her own nooks, where no 
one could find her. Stella was too delighted to 
speak. 

“ All my own ? ” she asked, at last. 

“ Yes, all your own ; a place in which to rest and 
to be happy; to read, to study, to refresh heart and 
brain, in order that we may the better give out our 
life to those who need it.” 

“ O, I am quite glad, Ralph. You have given me 
every thing, and I have nothing to bring to you.” 

“ But yourself ? ” 

“ But myself, and — O, I forgot,” she said, blush- 


The Amber Stab. 


241 


ing ; “ I have a little fortune of my own yet, though 
even that I owe to you.” 

She drew from her pocket a tiny box, and opening 
it, revealed a bright silver half-dollar. Kalph looked 
puzzled. 

“ Do you remember when you gave it to me ? ” she 
said. 

“ I ! no, 1 never gave it to you.” 

“ Yes, you did ; one chilly night, when I was cold 
and hungry, you gave it to me to buy me shoes.” 

“Lina! you?” 

“ Yes, Ralph, I am the child for whom you almost 
gave your life ; it is right that I should give mine to 
you.” 

“ Can I come in, Mrs. Lindsay ? ” called Adah. 

Lina blushed at sound of her new name; but Ralph 
answered : 

“ Come up, Mrs. Donald ; you are no stranger to 
the rooms.” 

“ J^o, indeed,” said Adah. “We have had such a 
lovely time, mamma and I,” she said, turning to Mrs. 
Donald, who had come up also. “And we have 
talked books full about every one of these draperies 
and pretty objects — have we not ? ” 

“ Did you help to make it all so lovely for me, too ?” 
asked Stella of her mother; “how good you all are!” 

“ How happy I am to have a child for whom to do 
16 


242 


The Ambek Stab. 


it ! ” she said ; and Stella kissed her, and whispered, 
“ Precious mother ! ” 

Ralph opened a door leading out of Stella’s parlor 
into an adjoining room, and said : 

“We had intended to give the use of Forest Farm- 
house to Mrs. Darrell ; but I thought, after last 
night, that we should want her to have a niche in our 
very own home, to which she can retire when she 
wearies of the world of children outside ; so I have 
set aside this room for her. It will be left for you to 
fit it up as you please.” 

“We are going to help — Don and I,” said Adah ; 
“ and see, he has begun already to make it home ! ” 
She pointed upward, and there, over the mantel, 
hung the picture of the Madonna and Child.” 

“ You see we have made a shrine for our saint,” 
said Don. “ She has indeed been ‘ Madra Consolata,’ 
a mother of consolation to us ! ” 

“I cannot realize it, it all seems so strange,” said 
Lina, “ that I, once homeless, motherless, unloved, 
should inherit all, all in a day — mother, brother, 
husband, home, and love — wh}^, how could I have 
more in heaven ? ” 

“You can make this heaven by keeping your love 
and joy so near to God that they overflow and 
brighten the troubled world,” said Loren, gently 
putting his hand on hers. 


The Amber Star. 


243 


And she turned and looked up into his eyes, clear 
and tender as a child’s, and said : 

“ That’s what you have done. Uncle Loren ; and 
the comfort of my whole life has come from that 
overflow.” 

“Well, then, so far it is good to have loved and 
suffered ; for just so far as another has been blessed 
by us, has God made a channel for divine love in our 
souls.” 

And after this they talked no more. * ^ . 

As the years sped on the Forest Home prospered, 
and overflowed into the homes of the farmers, who 
began to be glad to take the children in. Another 
home went up in a neighboring town for invalid 
mothers and sick children. Nurses were trained. 
The country girls were pressed into service as teach- 
ers of the day and sewing schools, while pale young 
women from the cities picked blackberries, and grew 
rosy on the pastures and on the hills. 

Aunt Hannah’s kitchen became a training-school ; 
and she, unable to walk, sat in the chair, and taught 
girls to cook, to iron, to sew; and under the disci- 
pline her soul grew patient and white, and truly 
“ ripened ” for the better land. 

Uncle Loren was the patriarch of the Home, and 
all the boys loved him. Little girls rolled and rol- 
licked in Ids hay-flelds, and rode on his cart. The 


244 


The Amber Star. 


girls imposed upon him, but his clear eye held the 
boys ; and when, at night, he came to the Home, and 
led the assembled family in prayer, they knew he 
held in his soul the secret of Christian power. 

And when he fell asleep, after many days, ferns 
and autuihn leaves filled his grave, scattered by child- 
ish hands, and his loving presence lingered long 
among his native hills. 

Loren’s little store of worldly wealth came to the 
Forest Home. Aunt Carruth’s money w’ent also for 
the children ; but it was spent on Scottish soil, in 
helping widows to rear their sons; in helping boys 
every-where, who were willing to help themselves. 
It became a Loan Fund ; and, managed with wisdom 
and care, resulted in practical good to many and 
many a “bairn.” 

If more of it went to “Waif-land” than might 
have seemed good to some cautious philanthropists, 
it was because Donald knew what it was to be a waif 
in a city of strangers. Once a year he went with 
Adah to Europe. But while their acquaintances went 
wandering from city to city, and .came home laden 
with the luxuries of Paris, they spent much time 
among the poor little souls of “Waif-land,” and 
came home clad in the garments of peace, and 
crowned with the joy of those who, “having done 
it unto the least ” of his, have done it unto Him. 


A FAIR HALF-DOZEN 


I 



A FAIR HALF-DOZEN. 


CHAPTEE I, 

Only half a dozen. That’s a small number. Ah, 
but half a dozen pretty girls ! It means a great deal. 
Six pairs of eyes with youth in them. It warms an 
old heart to think of their sparkle and glow ! Six 
pairs of smiling lips — all talking at once, I must con- 
fess — and six pairs of hands ready and eager for their 
work. 

They were all together around the fire in a pleasant 
room, half-salon and h' If-library — a room that looked 
as if occupied every day, and kept warm and bright 
with cheerful human presence. Cloaks and gloves 
lay carelessly on sofas and chairs, as if their owners 
had not come to stay. Yet they suited the cheery 
room, these bright young faces, and it’s hardly fair to 
introduce it to my readers with them there, lest they 
like the place less well when they are gone. But for 
the present they linger and talk and smile, with all 
the beautiful vivacity of unspent, unwearied lives; 
and we linger and listen, whether we care what they 


248 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


are saying or not — linger and listen, because the sight 
and sound are fair. 

Before one had time to turn one’s mind from the 
manner to the matter of their talk, the draperies sep- 
arating this room from the next moved, and, slowly, 
a large arm-chair was wheeled forward into the room. 

“ Ah ! here she comes, here’s our little queen ! ” 
And with one impulse they surrounded the chair, 
giving its occupant an affectionate, almost a bois- 
terous, greeting. Pushing the servant aside, they 
drew the chair to the table, and placed within the 
occupant’s reach a large stand of engravings. 

“ There now, little queenie, is the throne comfort- 
able ? ” asked Helen Marsh, a merry-looking girl, as 
she readjusted the cushions, while another brought 
a footstool. 

“ Quite right, thanks, dear Nellie ; but you are all 
too kind. I ought to be here in my place before my 
class is assembled, but this morning I have been very 
sadly detained. 

“ Sadly ? ” asked Grace Merrill, in a sympathetic 
voice, that echoed the tone as well as the word. 

“ How, good Queen Madge ? ” broke in mischiev- 
ous Dorothy Hall ; why do you let your majesty give 
audience to beggars, when — ” 

“ This was no beggar,” interrupted the invalid. 

“Perhaps not, but you do let them come, you 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


249 


know you do ; and, if not a beggar, this was some- 
body with a misery.” 

Margaret Heath smiled, and shook her head. 

“ O, yes it was,” insisted Euth Helson, shaking her 
finger playfully ; “ I knew somebody had been tell- 
ing you a sad tale the moment I saw your face.” 

“ And to think of your listening, when here were 
your loyal subjects waiting to do you homage ! ” said 
a tall girl, who had not yet spoken, as she took from 
her belt a cluster of violets, and laid them in tlie lap 
of her friend. 

“Waiting rather to spoil me utterly,” said Mar- 
garet, with a loving glance that included the group ; 
“you would make me the most self-indulgent of 
women, if I let you have your way.” 

“ I only wish that we might,” whispered Euth 
Helson, who had not once left her place at Margaret’s 
side. “You suffer enough without hearing any thing 
about the sufferings of others.” 

“O my dear little Euth, how can you say that? 
what would my suffering be worth if it did not make 
me sorry for others ? But,” and she paused suddenly, 
“I didn’t mean to talk about this, though I have often 
wished I dared to talk to you about it, and now it’s 
past the time for our lesson.” 

“ O, never mind the lesson, queenie,” said Helen, 
“ if you don’t feel in the mood for it. You look 


250 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


tired already, and, much as we love it, we would 
rather have a little of Margaret than a great deal of 
art. Isn’t it so, girls ? ” 

The others promptly responded by pushing the 
portfolios beyond Margaret’s reach. 

For a moment she leaned her head rather wearily 
back upon the cushion, and closed her eyes. They 
softened their voices, and quieted the fun. 

She was not much older than the eldest of them, 
and yet her abundant brown hair showed gray threads 
about the temples. Her large gray eyes were full of 
intelligence and feeling. The mouth, very sweet in 
repose, showed a singular combination of tenderness 
and strength, and the whole face would have had a 
character of quiet reserve, if the eyes had not be- 
trayed it often by too ready tears. By no fancy could 
she have been thought pretty. The slight figure, 
diminutive in height and bowed by suffering, had not 
a grace save the fine carriage of the head, and the 
almost constant movement of the restless white hands. 
She talked with her hands. They were the only 
motion vouchsafed to her, and she used her privilege 
well. There was something in her touch that made 
her queen, for she held an invisible scepter. If they 
brought to her a fretful child, her caresses quieted it 
to slumber. When the girls, as sometimes occurred 
in their merry controversies, passed over the bounds 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


251 


of perfect courtesy into a region of unkind criticism, 
she said nothing, but the one nearest was sure to 
feel that gentle touch on the arm. 

Once she took between her hands the hard palm 
of one of her father’s laborers, and the rough man 
vowed that the hand she had touclied should never 
again lift the cup, she had begged him to abandon, 
to his lips. She used these hands constantly with 
needle and pen ; and when her friends urged her 
to rest, slie said, 

“ They are my only weapons ; and you, who can 
put on the whole armor, and. go about the world to 
find your work, must not hinder their doing with 
their might whatever they find to do.” 

These young girls were her friends, who had lived 
near her from childhood, and they had all been edu- 
cated at the same school. During those school-days, 
the blithest and brightest of them all was Margaret 
Heath. When a very little girl, her tiny figure, and 
the peculiar grace and activity of her movements, 
made the other children always choose her, if in their 
games they wanted a fairy queen, and she never lost 
that charm that made her chosen and petted and 
loved. She carried ofi the honors of her class, and 
the hearts of her companions and friends as well. 

School over, her father took her abroad, and her 
thoughtful mind passed from books to the study of 


252 


A Faie Half-Dozen. 


the wonderful European world. A few months in 
England, and then they went on to the Continent, en- 
tering Switzerland in early June. And there it was 
that the accident occurred which wrecked the frail 
little body, till for a time it seemed as if the soul 
could not be made to stay within. 

It was no new and startling tale. Such things 
had occurred before. Only a careless driver, passing 
over from the heights of Chamounix to Martigny, 
by the pass of the Tete-Noire, let his horses run too 
near the edge of the precipice, and the carriage was 
overturned. Mr. Heath, his sister, a maiden lady, 
who held in his household the place to Margaret of 
her dead mother, had escaped ; but Margaret was so 
injured that for weary weeks life flickered and 
seemed loath to stay. Then it crept back slowly to 
heart and brain, and to the gentle eager hands ; but, 
though all that medical skill and tenderest solicitude 
prompted was done, they knew she never would 
walk again. 

There was no one of her friends whose heart 
was not so tender toward her as almost to break to 
tell her this ; but she read it under their encouraging 
smiles, and heard her doom under the cheeriest tone 
of their voices. She felt it in the tenderness of all 
their ministrations. They took her southward, and 
she sat on the beach, or lay under the olive-trees at 


A Faik Half-Dozen. 


253 


Cannes by day, and sobbed out her disappointment 
over the broken life at night, when there was no an- 
swer but the soft break of the sea upon tlie sand. 

It was no light thing to lay down her girlhood 
and all the unfolded hope of her womanhood, 
and those who loved her watched lest the struggle 
should prove too violent for her strength. But, little 
by little, they saw traces of the Kefiner’s presence 
by the side of the furnace fires. Little by little they 
saw submission and faith and love steal up from her 
heart, and overflow at lips and eyes ; and, when she 
reached Italy, and went eagerly to work with the 
best teachers they could procure at the study of art, 
they took courage, and no longer felt that, for her, 
life had come to the end. 

At the close of two years they brought her home, 
and again there came around her the friends of her 
youth, and the companions of her girlish life. She 
could not go out, but much that was socially delight- 
ful came to her, and those who at first came, bring- 
ing their pitying tribute to suffering, found that 
delightful hours were still to be enjoyed by the side 
of Margaret Heath. 

Hone discovered this more quickly than did the 
five girls who met together in the room at the time 
of the opening of our tale. Playfully they still called 
her their queen, and, one after another, she bound 


254 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


them to her by the strong but gentle cords of her 
loving interest, until there was no sweeter spot to 
them than her room, haunted though it oft might 
be, by the shadow of her pain. At first they came 
separately, to tell her of their amusements and enjoy- 
ments in society, and to bring whatever they thought 
would enliven a weary hour, till, one by one, they 
found they were gathering more than they scattered, 
taking far more than tliey brought. Then they 
came, two or three at the same time, to talk or read 
with Margaret, and finally it settled into their spend- 
ing a morning weekly, all together in her parlor. 'No 
one of them had been abroad, and the result of her 
experience and observation gave them great delight. 
They laughingly formed themselves into an art 
class, and read and studied the history of art to- 
gether, each bringing whatever she could find that 
would interest and instruct, but relying chiefly upon 
Margaret, who pursued with vigor the studies begun 
abroad, and whose every item of knowledge gained 
was only another gift to be gladly shared with them. 
They were not all daughters of wealthy parents. 
Only two of the five, Helen Marsh and Edith Grant, 
knew the gay winters in society, and the gay sum- , 
mers at the sea-shore or the mountains. Dorothy 
Hall was the daughter of a clergyman ; Grace 
Merrill, a teacher in the school from which they 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


255 


were graduated ; and Kuth, the daughter of a widow, 
was a day governess in the house of her mother’s 
friends. 

There was a mutual understanding among the five, 
that, if at any time they found Margaret too feeble 
for the lesson, they should abandon it for the hour, 
without forcing her to say so, and this particular 
morning they could not fail to see that she was still 
under the influence of some painful emotion, and 
that her mind was engrossed with something of more 
vital interest than the history of art. So they gently 
led her away from it; and, when she opened her 
eyes, after resting a few moments, they had settled 
into a very quiet group. 

“ I am asl lamed of myself, girls,” she said, smiling, 
her eyes shining through the tears ; “ but the truth 
is, I have been wanting the service of my feet so 
much this morning that I have unfitted myself for 
service with hands or head.” 

“Why, wdiat do you want of your feet, you 
naughty queen ? ” asked Grace, kissing her, “ when 
your business is to stay here enthroned, and be fed, 
like the queen bee in the hive, while there are ten 
feet waiting impatiently to run for you.” 

“ Ah ! but I could not send them where I would 
go. They cannot run in my shady ways.” 

“What are your ways. Queen Madge?” asked 


256 


A Fa IE Half-Dozen. 


Dorothy ; “ you have no need to go to and fro in the 
earth. All that’s lovely in life will come to you 
right here, and just be laid at your feet, dearie.” 

“ Yes,” broke in Edith, “you are like the spider in 
its parlor ; you have only to say ‘ Come in ’ to any fly 
you want. Tell us upon what particular fly you 
have fixed your tender little heart now, and we will 
away for it at once ! ” 

Margaret laughed, but her voice was very serious 
and sweet when she spoke again, and they drew near 
and listened gravely when she said, 

“ Yes, girls, I am in no mood for the art talk this 
morning, delightful as it is. I have been thinking 
that we are not doing quite the right thing to 
spend so much time as we do just for our own pleas- 
ure, and I was wishing we could do something for 
people outside, people who are less fortunate than we 
are.” 

“You wouldn’t give up the club, would you?” 
asked Hutli. 

“ Ho ; but I would let more people share it.” 

“ What ! and just spoil all our own delight ? ” asked 
Helen. 

“Would it spoil our pleasure to give pleasure to 
another?” asked Margaret. 

“That depends upon what the other might be 
like,” said Dorothy, archly. 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


257 


“ Yery true,” said Grace; “but Margaret wouldn’t 
invite any one who wouldn’t be an attractive addition 
to our circle.” 

“I’m not so sure,” said Edith. “Now, Margaret 
has a dear little mania of her own, just as sweet and 
lovely as it can be in theory, but very uncomfortable 
in practice, about doing — ” 

“Doing as she would be done by,” broke in 
Dorothy. 

“Yes, and she would be sure to invite two or three 
girls of that sort.” 

“ Of what sort ? ” asked Margaret, smiling. 

“ Why, you know, dear, of — well, not our sort.” 

“ You mean, girls, to whom it would do good to 
come ? ” said Edith. 

“I don’t know, Kuth. That would be our sort, 
wouldn’t it ? ” 

They laughed, but Ruth replied, 

“ Yes ; but, then, we wouldn’t like to come just to 
have good done to us, or Z would not, and I don’t 
think poorer girls take kindly to any thing they feel 
is done just for the sake of their good. I’rn sure I 
would not profit by such condescension.” 

“ Why need there be any condescension in inviting 
six more girls, even if they are very poor, or are 
working girls, to pass the morning with us ? ” 

“ Could you invite them as friends ? ” asked Helen. 

17 


258 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


“As my friends,” answered Margaret, gently. 
“ Why not ? One of the noblest American women I 
know, living for many years in Italy, asked me one 
day if I would like to come to her studio on a certain 
day, and meet some of her Italian friends ; she said 
they were of a class with which 1 might not other- 
wise come in contact, but friends to whom she was 
at home always on Friday mornings. I went; I 
found her visitors were the very, very poor; hag- 
gard women, sickly children, young girls who 
needed advice ; men out of work, and boys who came 
to show her their progress in tasks which she had set 
the previous week. I wish I could describe to you 
the gracious, simple courtesy with which she treated 
them, without ostentation, or the faintest touch of 
condescension. They were her friends.” 

“ I can see how she was their friend, but not how 
they could be friends for her,” said Edith. 

“Wait till some sickness or trouble came to her, 
and you would see ; their friendship was as true and 
real as if existing in the hearts of those who have 
wealth and name.” 

“ Do you not think the girl one would like to help 
knows perfectly well that those who labor in her 
behalf do not care for her, except as a representative 
of a lower class, whom they philanthropically would 
like to see elevated ? ” asked Grace. 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


259 


“Yes, I think they know it, whenever it is true 
that no one really cares.” 

“ Is it not always true ? ” asked Dorothy. 

“ Hot always ; it was not so with the lady of whom 
I spoke.” 

“ You think she really cared ? ” 

“ Certainly she did, and so should we, if we only 
allowed ourselves to know them. I am sure you 
would care if you had heard the story told me this 
morning — a story of a girl of our own age, one like 
ourselves, except in the accident of birth.” 

“ Tell us ; can you ? ” asked Dorothy, slipping her 
hand in Margaret’s. 


260 


A Fair Half-Dozkn. 


CHAPTEE II. 

“ I ONLY wish you could have heard the mother tell 
of it,” said Margaret, softly. “ She came here this 
morning, a little while before you came, a pale, 
gentle woman, with a face as sweet as my own dear 
mother had before she went away, and she asked for 
me. I saw her, and she told me, with some choking 
of voice, that she was the seamstress at Mr. Lord’s, 
on the street just below us, the rear of whose house 
is overlooked by our own. She said her daughter, 
who had been a compositor in a printing-house, had 
fallen ill with one hemorrhage after another. And 
Mrs. Lord had allowed her to come and share her 
mother’s little attic at the rear of the house. She 
said she thought her gaining, but I could see the 
mother’s heart had many fears. Now, that girl sits 
at that back window, and looks out upon our con- 
servatory, and sees the green leaves, and longs for 
a sight of the flowers that are hidden by the foliage 
from her view. She sees, once in a while, a blossom 
or a bit of color, and is like a little child in her de- 
light. And when she has the cough, and the fever 
is high in the night, she talks of the place as if it 




A Fair Half-Dozen. 


261 


were heaven, and begs to go in among tlie trees, and 
to smell the fragrance of the flowers.” 

‘“But, my dear woman,’ I asked, ‘has she had no 
flowers in her sickness ? ’ and I thought, with a pang, 
of my perfume-laden room, and I wanted to run and 
gather my roses for her at once. And her mother 
said, ‘ Ho, she has had no flowers in sickness nor in 
health, either. She is seventeen years old, and she 
has never seen the country in her life.’ And she 
told me she had only seen flo\^ers in the windows, 
and that before she died she wanted to touch a 
flower.” 

Little exclamations of surprise and pain broke 
from the group as Margaret 'went on : “ Her father 
had been a compositor ; he had taught his daughter 
to set type when she was a mere child. When she 
was only thirteen he died, leaving the mother with 
feeble health, and this girl, the eldest of five chil- 
dren. Her father’s employers gave her work, child 
as she was, and made it light at first; but, after a 
little, they forgot she was not a woman, and wdien 
there was a press of work, there was often night 
work for her, as for the rest. The business changed 
hands ; she must do her share or drop out. The 
mother did what she could with plain sewing, but 
this girl, no older than we are, was the only bread- 
winner in the home. And poor enough the home 


262 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


was, and often the food was scanty and bad, and the 
room where she worked was damp, and at night their 
garrets were cold. Then came the scarlet fever, and 
the baby and the youngest daughter died. Then it 
was that the mother let the boys go to the half- 
orphan asylum, where she pays their board out of 
her wages, and found a place for herself in a family 
as seamstress. And yet, girls,’’ said Margaret, ‘‘ what 
do you think she asked of me ? ” 

“ Not money! ” said Edith, “I am sure.” 

“ Not money, but that this poor girl might, when 
the days grew warm and sunny again, if she had 
strength enough to come round the corner, go in and 
sit down for a few moments where she can see and 
touch the flowers. Think of it, girls” — and Mar- 
garet’s voice faltered — “ she never had a flower or a 
bright book, or heard a strain of music, or saw a 
picture in her life. Think of those years of work, of 
this early death — worn out, worked out, starved out 
almost, for the sake of the mother and the little 
brothers and sisters, and tell me if you wonder that 
I want that girl for ray friend. I want to look in 
her face, and hear her voice, and know how she 
lived, and see how she can die, for I honor such a 
life, and I know it must be a happy death.” 

“Yet it ought not to have come,” said Euth, 
solemnly. 


A Fair Half-Dozen, 


263 


“ No, it ought not,” said Margaret ; “ somebody in 
all the great world should have known, should have 
cared, should have saved her.” 

“ And the saddest thing about it is, that this case 
is only one ! ” said Helen. 

“ Only one of the many,” said Margaret ; “ and I 
think if we are able to do nothing for her, that we 
have something to do for the rest.” 

“If only we knew howl” said Grace, doubt- 
fully. 

“We must learn,” said Margaret. 

“ And you will teach us, Margaret ; you shall 
direct, and we will obey. Shall it be so, little 
queen ? ” 

“ No, not so ; but I will work with you as I can, 
and you will help me, I know. We are only six 
young girls, but we are going to do something for 
the multitudes of girls and children who have less to 
bless them than God has given us. Is it not a com- 
pact, my friends ? ” 

“ Yes, yes,” they said, catching the glow of her 
bright spirit ; “ only, queenie, yon must surely lead. 
We will be as loyal and industrious as any bees ever 
sent forth to gather honey.” 

“You shall be sent to distribute it, instead,” she 
said. 

“ Then the sour old world will be the sweeter for 


264 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


our living,” laughed Dorothy, who could not be 
serious too long. 

“ That it must. Dot ; and that the sweetness may 
begin at once, I want you and Ruth to be off to the 
conservatory, and cut the loveliest roses that you can 
find.” 

“O, Margaret, can I take them?” asked Helen, 
eagerly. 

“Yes, you shall take them, and the girls shall 
wheel me to the window, and perhaps we can see her 
when her hand first touches a rose.” 

No sooner said than done. The chair was wheeled 
into the deep recess of the window and the heavy 
curtains withdrawn. Yery soon Edith cried out, 
“ O, look, there she is ! that must be the one ! ” and 
all eyes were turned to a window on the fourth floor 
of the opposite house, where sat a pale young girl, 
with her head resting on a pillow that had been 
placed on the back of her chair. She seemed languid 
and weary, and her eyes wandered over the long row 
of houses, and at last settled contentedly upon the 
glass roofs of the conservatory of Margaret’s home. 
They watched carefully, after Dot and Helen had 
departed, with their hands full of flowers, and sud- 
denly they saw the head raised from the pillow, the 
arms outstretched, and the thin hands laden with 
roses, which again and again she kissed, and then, 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


265 


bowing her face among them, they knew that she 
was watering them with her tears. There were not 
many dry eyes in the bay window, and one by one 
the girls bade Margaret “ good-bye,” and went away. 

“Remember Wednesday morning,” she whispered, 
and they answered with a kiss. 

The fire was burning briglitly, the portfolio was 
open, the invalid chair and its occupant were already 
by the table, when the next Wednesday morning 
came round. The girls came in one after another, 
their bright faces and cheery voices making a happy 
light and a pleasant sound in the quiet apartment. 
Greetings over, they were all eager to hear what 
Margaret had thought out as a little plan of work, 
by which they might hope to be of use, but she drew 
their attention first to the portfolio, saying, 

“ I do not want to drop our pleasant work among 
the pictures, dear girls ; but I have acted upon our 
suggestion of last week, and decided to change the 
plan of our study a little. For example, I want each 
one of you to invite for next week one other girl. 
That will make our number eleven, and I will watch 
my invalid neighbor at the window, and, if the day 
is fine and she is strong enough, she shall make the 
twelfth. So if there is any good to be gained, or any 
pleasure to be enjoyed, we shall have doubled it at 
least.” 


266 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


“ O, how lovely ! ” exclaimed several voices ; but 
Dorothy made a wry face and pretended not to be 
pleased. 

“ So Jacob is to have Esau’s blessing? ” she asked. 

“Ho, Esau is to share his birthright with the 
younger members of the family; that is all,” an- 
swered Margaret. 

“But why don’t you make the selection. Queen 
Madge?” asked Grace; “you know more girls who 
would profit by the hour than we do.” 

“ For that very reason I do not wish to choose for 
you. I want you to be interested in the girls who 
are chosen to share our pleasure. If we do not know 
a single girl to whom it would be an advantage, then 
to find one will be the very part of the work to do us 
good.” 

“That’s true, queenie, you are always right. It 
may not be agreeable, but it will be best to find our 
own cases.” 

“Hot our cases, girls, but our new friends.” 

“Well, our friends, then,” said Edith, laughing. 

“ Yes, I want you each to take the trouble to find 
one young girl, who shall be your special interest and 
care. Some of us will not have to seek ; we already 
know too many to whose lives we could give an 
interest and charm. For these the work is. one of 
selection.” 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


2G7 


“But how?” asked several at once. “By what 
sliall we he governed ? ” 

“ W ell, not by our personal likes or fancies or at- 
tractions ; but, first, choose some girl who would not 
be likely to have opportunities such as we enjoy ; the 
girl who is limited in advantages and in time. Sec- 
ondly, choose one who feels her need, and would like 
to improve. You can each find one.” 

“ I know a dozen,” said Buth. 

“ And I,” answered Helen. 

The rest were silent, and Margaret went on : 

“ That’s well, and it is better for us who do not 
know some one, to open our eyes to the condition 
and circumstances of those around us. We go on our 
way, live our own lives, and are as ignorant as little 
children of the lives of others who pass us in the 
street, or sit beside us in church. We need to see 
what other girls have to do and to bear ; and, when 
we have found one whose lot is harder than our own, 
we shall wish to lift the load.” 

“But how shall we ask them?” said little Dot. 
“We wouldn’t want them to know we meant to do 
them good.” 

“ O, that’s easy enough,” answered Helen. 

“ But how ? ” persisted Dot. 

“Why, we hope to get as much good as we give. 
Why not first say, that dear Miss Heath invited us to 


268 


A Faie Half-Dozen. 


come and look over her portfolios, and learn about 
pictures, and we found it so pleasant that we thought 
it would be so for othere, so we were each to invite a 
friend.” 

“ Yes, yes, that will do, something like that,” said 
Until ; “ but now, girls, here is another puzzle. The 
girl I want is pretty as a pink. She is in my mother’s 
Sunday-school class, and so attentive and eager to learn. 
Now, that girl has not a good dress in the world, 
nothing better than an old black cashmere, faded to a 
rusty brown; and what do you think. Queen Mar- 
garet ? W ould she come in that frock ? 

Yes, yes,” answered Grace; “you can just say 
carelessly that we all come in our old frocks, that no 
body makes herself fine, or something like that.” 

“Then see that you make that true,” said Mar- 
garet. “We need not make ourselves untidy, but 
we needn’t wear our brooches and bracelets, to shine 
in the eyes of girls who never had a pretty thing in 
tlieir lives.” 

“ The truth is,” said Edith, “ as mamma says, that 
American young girls wear too much jewelry and 
too costly fabrics. No young German girl ever ap- 
pears in velvets on the promenade. Laces and jewels 
are unknown to the French demoiselle till after mar- 
riage. But we wear all we can get of finery as soon 
as we can get it.” 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


269 


“Well, some of us can safely do that,” laughed the 
bright young governess. “We need all we can get 
as soon as we can get it, and sometimes before ; and 
she glanced at her own neat dress, turned and cut 
over from her mother’s half-worn gown.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Helen, gently, “ we can find a way 
to make the difference in attire less marked after 
awhile.” 

“ Yes,” said Margaret, “after awhile; but we want 
to separate from this scheme all element of charity, 
of patronage, of condescension. We have pleasant 
hours ; we invite other young friends to share them. 
By and by, if we find life is hard for our new com- 
panions, we can find ways to help without hurting the 
self-respect of those we would aid. But all that must 
be an after-thought. You find your girls ; if they are 
at work, so that they cannot meet at our hour, we will 
change it. We will change also the plan of work a 
little, so as to include all in what we are trying to do. 
Heretofore I have taken the pictures, and told you all 
I had learned or read of them, and of the artists who 
painted them. How, I am going to give you a pict- 
ure as a topic, which you can mention to the other 
half-dozen, who for the first time must be listeners, 
of course, but who will, in this way, feel that if they 
can learn or read some little fact illustrative of the 
subject, it will be yalued by us all. Thus they will 


270 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


have at once the incentive to inquire, and the joy of 
giving us all profit and pleasure.” 

“ But if they haven’t access to books often, or time 
to read them ? ” 

“ Ho matter ; the lack of books can be met, and it 
is a good thing when any mind wakes to the con- 
sciousness of wanting to know something that is not 
easy to find. How, for to-day, our time is all gone. 
I’m going to lend you this picture of Leonardo da 
Yinci’s‘Last Supper,’ about which, and its creator 
and his time and his school of art, I wish you would 
each have some little thing to tell me. Bring your 
friends, and we will talk all about it together, and so 
get acquainted with them ; and next week they will 
be eager to bring us something themselves.” 

They crowded about her chair, and kissed her, and 
thanked her, and all talked together of this new and 
lovely plan to bless the lives of others. 

“ Can we take flowers to the sick girl to-day ? ” 
Edith. 

' “ Yes, indeed. She has had them every day so 
far, and she is better and stronger this week, so lier 
mother tells me. And by the way, girls, I have 
spoken to papa, and he consents to my sending out 
every morning from the conservatories five bunches 
of flowers to the sick, so that there will be a bunch 
for each one of you, any morning, when you choose 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


271 


to call and take it yourselves to any friend who is 
ill. The gardener grumbled a good deal over the 
waste, and said, I should be ruining the plants ; so I 
have arranged for him to cut the flowers, and have 
them ready every morning at nine.” 

“ O, you are a wonderful fairy queen ! ” said Edith, 
stopping her mouth with kisses. 

“ O, that will be delightful ! ” said Kuth. “ I can 
come for mine on the way to my pupils.” 

“ And there’s poor little Biddy Dolan, our washer- 
woman’s child, down with the asthma, shut up in the 
house all day,” broke in Helen. 

“Well, you can have the roses, if you will make 
your feet run instead of mine, to take them to those 
who will be cheered by their fragrance. If we can 
brighten thirty chambers of pain every week, it will 
surely be a blessed work.” 

“ Well, we could not do it but for you,” said Grace. 

“ Hor could I do it but for you ; so we serve each 
other, and get the sweetness of serving others to- 
gether as weU.” 


272 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


CHAPTEE HI. 

When they were gone, and Margaret’s chair had 
been wheeled back to her own room, she sat for a 
long time with her head leaning back on the pillows. 
In the strong light, with the countenance uncheered 
by the presence of her young companions, and want- 
ing the vivacious play of expression that came with 
her own thoughts and words, her face looked worn 
and tired, and showed plainly how much she must 
have suffered in the past. As she rested, the weary 
look died away, and when her aunt came in with her 
work to sit beside her, she brightened up, and told 
her of her morning’s talk, and of their plan of work. 

“It is all very lovely, my child,” said her aunt, 
glancing rather uneasily at Margaret’s pale face; 
“ but I doubt if you have strength for all the labor 
it will involve. The thinking and reading and plan- 
ning must all be done by you, and I often notice you 
are quite exhausted after these mornings with your 
friends.” 

“ O, my dear auntie, I beg of you not to say a word 
of that to papa. I shall need his help in so many 
ways, as we go on.” 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


273 


“Yes, but we cannot let you sacrifice yourself.” 

“ I do not mean to do that. I think I have often 
been tired because we girls did so little, and not 
because we did so much. Now, I’m only going to 
sit near and see a dozen of them work.” 

“To multiply your hands by twelve,” said her 
aunt, smiling. 

“ Yes, and my feet, too. It seems to be the only 
way left to me.” 

“ Well, you have enough loving-kindness and 
thoughtfulness in your heart to guide the labors of 
ever so many hands. I only fear for your strength.” 

“ Don’t fear, dear auntie, please ; and don’t dis- 
courage me. You know all the other ways of living 
and of serving are closed to me. There’s nothing 
in my life if I cannot bring into it joy or help for 
others.” 

It was so rarely that Margaret made any allusion 
to her misfortune, or revealed that she missed the 
active joys that were denied her, that her aunt was 
touched. She came near, and, arranging the shawl 
around the invalid’s shoulders, said softly as she 
kissed her : 

“Well, to have the power to bless left, is to keep 
all the best of life.” 

“ Yes, I know it,” answered Margaret, lifting her 

eyes that were full of tears. “ I know, too, that all 
18 


274 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


the joy in the life of Jesus was of just this kind that I 
may share, and I am happy and grateful ; only, when 
the girls have come and gone, they bring so much 
life, that my own helpless, half-dead condition is 
more apparent by contrast, and I am left a little sad. 
But it is all passed now, and it is selfish and ungrate- 
ful, I know.” 

‘‘Neither selfish nor ungrateful, but natural,” said 
her aunt, kissing her tenderly. “ I remembered you 
this morning, dear, when I was at the meeting of our 

Board of Managers of the T r Hospital. They 

told me of a case of injury like yours that had been 
entirely cured.” 

“ A young girl ? ” 

“ Yes, and a most beautiful girl, they said, under 
sixteen years of age — young, pretty, friendless, and 
without a home.” 

Margaret’s reclining head was lifted, and the clear, 
resolute look came back to her eyes. 

“ Tell me more, auntie.” 

“Well, I do not know all about her, but she 
was brought to the hospital from one of the third- 
class theaters, where she was in training for the bal- 
let. They were practicing one day, when a portion 
of the temporary stage gave way, and she had a 
frightful fall. The injuries were singularly similar 
to yours ; but for two years she has been in the hos- 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


275 


pitalj and her vigor of constitution has conquered the 
weakness, and now she is going out cured.” 

“ But not strong ? ” 

“ Ho, she will never be strong.” 

But she will not go back to that frightful life ? ” 

“ Ho, she can never do that, nor can she do severe 
labor anywhere. We try, when cases like this occur, 
where there are no friends to whom the patient can 
return, to find work suited to the convalescent’s 
strength ; but that is sometimes very difficult.” 

“Haturally, people who employ labor wish a full 
equivalent for wages.” 

“ Certainly. It is not easy to find homes that can 
also be made temporary asylums.” 

“Yet such poor creatures need nothing so much as 
a home.” 

“That is true. The ladies who come in contact 
with girls like this one, give them money, and 
sometimes, but rarely, make a place in their house- 
holds for one to do light work, and at the same 
time bestow such care on her manners, morals, and 
health as would really start her after-life on a better 
plan.” 

“ Sometimes ! Why should there not be some 
arrangement by which it could be done often or 
always? Why, it must often mean the saving of a 
whole life ! ” 


276 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


“True, but the mistress of a household cannot 
always act quite freely in such matters. There are 
children and servants to whom the new element may 
be demoralizing. There must be consideration of 
the welfare of all in the house, as well as of the one 
to come in. For example, if I felt willing to provide 
a home for this Crystal Niel, as she is called, she 
might be a very unwelcome addition to your father 
and to you.” 

“No, indeed, auntie; I am sure I should be very 
glad, and you know papa is always willing we sliould 
do as we think wise. Let us take her, auntie dear. 
You say she is young and pretty. She will keep 
these gray hairs of mine from coming so fast, per- 
haps, and there are so many things that I can do 
for her.” 

“Ah, but what can she do for you? is the ques- 
tion.” 

“Not the first question, auntie,” said Margaret, 
softly. Then she added, her fine eyes glowing 
with an earnest light, “ if we do it, auntie, we can 
ask others to do it also ; and, if every lady on your 
Board of Managers fried to interest her circle of 
friends, until she had a list of all the homes she 
knew in which the lady would be willing to try the 
experiment of having one homeless girl, there could 
surely be found enough places for all who need them.” 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


277 


“Ah, my child, you have a genius for organiza- 
tion, I believe,” said Mrs. Warren, smiling. 

“ No, I have no gift ; but I think this could be 
done. You could have some one lady to keep a reg- 
ister of all the places that were available, with the 
number of weeks for which each would be willing to 
keep a girl. During these periods permanent places 
might be secured.” 

“ And for how long, then, should we agree to keep 
our Crystal Neil ? ” 

“ Let us try her for a month, and keep her longer 
if we can.” 

“Very good. We will try it, if your father does 
not object. We will save her, if she proves worth 
saving.” 

“Jesus thought she was worth saving,” passed 
through Margaret’s mind, but she said nothing. 
And that same evening the matter was discussed 
with Mr. Heath, whose theory was to grant every 
wish of Margaret’s, even if her wishes sometimes 
seemed to him the fancies of an invalid’s mind. 

He gave her abundant love, and he gave her also 
the next best thing for a good woman, a kind and 
trustful freedom to do what she felt right and best 
within the limits that his means would afford. 


278 


A Faik Half-Dozen. 


CHAPTEK lY. 

On a suimy morning, two days later, Margaret was 
seated by the window, watching for the coming of her 
aunt, who was to bring the stranger. Crystal Neil. 

When she heard the carriage she could hardly 
wait for them to mount the stairs, and before the 
flush died from her cheeks the door opened, 
and her aunt came forward, leading by the hand a 
young and beautiful girl clad in a costume of shabby 
black. Before her aunt had time to say a word, 
Margaret had welcomed her with a smiling face and 
outstretched hand. 

“So this is the young friend who has come to 
show a poor invalid how to grow well and strong?” 
she said. “ My aunt tells me you are almost well.” 

“ Almost well, thank you ; ” and the lovely brown 
eyes were lifted to Margaret’s face. 

“She is well enough to take care of you, Margaret, 
and help you in any way that you wush to have her.” 

“ I am glad of that, for, you see. Crystal — that is 
your name, is it not ? — I have to borrow other peo- 
ple’s hands for all my work. And I need some one 
to help me just now. The gardener has been mak- 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


279 


ing for me a few little bouquets every morning, and 
I told liim to-day that we would make tliem here, if 
he would bring the flowers to me. So, if you like to 
come back, after you have seen your room and taken 
off your hat, we will enjoy the flowers together.” 

Bewildered by the kind voice and gentle eyes, be- 
wildered by the lovely room, fragrant with flowers, 
and briglit in the fire-light, the girl was taken away 
to her little room not far from Margaret’s own. It 
was plainly but neatly furnished, and there was 
nothing to note, above other rooms in the servants’ 
wing, except that a glass of roses stood on the 
bureau, not fresher or more beautiful than was the 
face that bent over them in delight, and then lifted 
itself and gazed long and earnestly into the mirror 
by her side. 

She gazed like one in a dream. What had hap- 
pened that she, with her fourteen horrible years of 
toil, of curses, of childish misery, and her two years 
of anguish in a hospital, should have come out at 
last into this home-paradise? Like one in a happy 
dream, she went back to Margaret, and over the 
bouquets the two became acquainted, and something 
of Crystal’s timid silence wore away. 

Her aunt had made it clearly understood that, 
since Crystal was not yet strong enough for very 
hard work, she was to come into the family and aid 


280 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


Miss Margaret in any way that should be required, 
and meantime they would interest themselves to find 
her suitable occupation. She had listened silently, 
and answered “ Yes,” to the lady’s proposition. She 
knew nothing of such a life as the one proposed ; 
but she must go somewhere, being too far recovered 
to be allowed to linger in the hospital, and she had 
nowhere else in the whole wide world to go. And 
now she was here, in this beautiful home, witli 
warmth and beauty all about her, and a kind voice 
and loving smile to greet her. Ho wonder that into 
the midst of her pleasure there crept already the 
startled fear of the day when work should be found 
elsewhere. 

And Margaret was happy also in her new acquisi- 
tion of youth and brightness, as a child with a new 
and pretty book. She looked down at the soft color 
on the cheeks. The rose leaves were not fairer. 
Hot one of the girls who were her special friends, 
neither Ruth, Edith, Grace, nor Helen, could boast 
such soft bright eyes. Hot even curly-headed Dot 
had such a wealth of sunny hair as this, that shone 
she bent her head in tying up the flowers. As 
^dargaret, with a girl’s love of beauty, watched her, 
s!ie wondered what her friends would think of her 
new possession. Her kind heart readily opened to 
this homeless, friendless girl, the seemingly uncon- 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


281 


scious owner of the gift of beauty, a gift too often 
fatal to the daugliters of the poor. 

Before the bouquets were finished laughing voices 
were heard in the hall below, and three girls, Helen, 
Edith, and Dot, came merrily in, and half-smothering 
Margaret with kisses, were in turn surprised at the 
sight of this fair young face bending over the tray 
of flowers. For a moment Margaret hesitated, 
facing the problem that had come up in one of 
their talks, as to the footing on which these strangers 
should come among them. Only a moment, and 
tlien she said, sweetly ; 

“This is my new friend. Crystal Heil, girls, who 
has come to stay with me a few weeks, to do some 
of the things I cannot do for myself. She has 
arranged all the flowers for us this morning, and I 
am sure we have never had such lovely bouquets 
before.” 

“ If she could see poor Biddy Dolan’s eyes when I 
take her this cluster of buds,” said Helen, “ she 
would be paid for her care. The poor little thing 
asked me where I got them, and I told her the queen 
sent them to her ; and now she is exercising her vivid 
Irish imagination with visions of a good Queen Meg, 
sitting on a throne, in the midst of flelds of flowers 
that grow up to her very feet, and which she orders 
her maidens to gather for all the little children who 


282 


A Faie Half-Dozen. 


are ill. I haven’t untangled her fancies from the 
facts yet.” 

“ Her fancy is not far from the fact this time,” 
said Edith ; “ poor little tot, is she no better ? ” 

“ Ho better, nor can be in the air she breathes in 
the basement of a crowded tenement house. They 
might have a little cot in the country somewhere, 
but old Biddy wont leave Barney, her husband, and 
Barney wont leave the drink. 

And the natural result of all that is, that little Biddy 
must sit bolstered up in the chair, fighting with all her 
strength for her little share of breath,” said Dot. 

“ The murder of the innocents ! ” said Margaret, 
sadly ; “ there seems to be no way of saving the chil- 
dren from the curse, when the parents drink.” 

A quick startled glance from Crystal’s brown eyes 
shot up to Margaret’s face, and Margaret read it as if 
it had been written in words. 

“Poor child! she knows the meaning of that 
curse, I fear,” she thought, adding aloud, “ what can 
be done for Biddy Dolan’s child ? ” 

“ Could she go into the country ? ” asked Edith. 

“ Biddy, the elder, must scrub or starve,” answered 
Helen. 

“But could she not go without her mother? 
Couldn’t some place be found ? ” 

“I fear not, for a feeble child needs much care. 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


283 


And there is no one who could go with her, unless ” 
— and Margaret’s eyes sought Crystal’s — “ unless 
Crystal could.” 

And Crystal, poor child, who had just come into 
paradise, and wanted to stay, saw the gate just open- 
ing, and the light gleaming through the crack, that 
she felt would widen and widen until she should be 
thrust through it, out again into the bitter world. 
She looked frightened and excited, and in that mo- 
ment little Biddy Dolan became an object of un- 
conscious dislike and dread. And Margaret under- 
stood it all, though nobody said a word, and pitied 
the heart that had been so full of its own trouble, 
that it had no care for the pain of others. Poor 
Crystal ! looking with her rare beauty like a veritable 
Cinderella, in her old faded gown, she had never yet 
learned to be sorry for any one but herself. She had 
seen too much of the misery and suffering of the 
poor to be disturbed over little Biddy Dolan’s pant- 
ing breath. And Margaret, with her quick, spiritual 
instinct, divined it all, with no feeling but one of 
desire to waken — in the heart that knew nothing of 
God’s pitying love, nothing of motherly or sisterly 
tenderness — a pity for other children equally or- 
phaned and bereft. 

Nothing more was said of little Biddy, and day 
after day went by, and Crystal regularly performed 


284 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


lier morning duty of binding up the flowers, but 
never uttered a word as to the use to which the bou- 
quets were to be put. She saw the girls come and 
go ; she took great pleasure in their merry chat and 
laughter about Queen Margaret’s chair. She was 
herself the most beautiful girl of them all ; and, 
clad in the simple frocks with which Margaret had 
replaced the hospital gown, she went hither and 
thither about her tasks, cheerful and seemingly con- 
tent. But when the conversation turned upon the 
poor, she was absolutely silent, as if for her existed 
no such class. In this Margaret was disappointed ; 
for while she could understand that allusions to such 
poverty and degradation might be painful, she could 
not understand the unmoved hardness and indiffer- 
ence with which she listened, as the girls told their 
trying experiences, even in the bestowal of the 
flowers. 

“ My dear old feeble Quaker lady was taken away 
by her brother into the country, last week,” said 
Kuth, one day, when they had all come in to talk 
with Margaret over the recipients of the flowers. 

“ She was a lovely old soul, not so dreadfully poor, 
not starvation poor, I mean. She had her room on 

the top floor of a decent house in C Street, and 

said she liked it up there, because she could go out on 
the roof in summer evenings, and get the cool air and 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


285 


see the stars. And I fancy slie fell ill by going up 
to see the stars too often when the nights were damp. 
Any way, she has had malarial fever, down with a 
chill every third day and, as it happened, my dowers 
went twice a week, and went on the day of the 
chill.” 

“ How did you know of her ? ” asked Margaret. 

“ Through the physician who came to see Brother 
Will. He told mother he had been called to a nice 
old Quakeress, who supported herself by making 
boys’ suits, and lived up near the sky, in two little 
rooms, as neat as a queen bee’s waxen cell.” 

“ And now she’s gone ? ” 

“ Yes, it seems she had a brother, and the brother 
had a farm in Pennsylvania, among the hills, and she 
didn’t like to tax him, knowing the farm brought in 
little money. But he heard of her illness, and came 
on and took her away to his home ; so, twice a week, 
I can take my dowers to a new place, if any one 
knows of some one who is ill.” 

“Well, some people have a genius for doing 
good,” said Grace. “Just hear Euth, now! What 
could be lovelier than to climb up those stairs, and 
get the dear old lady’s blessing? When Euth told 
me of her sweet old lady, I told mamma I should 
never be satisded till I had found an old lady, too. I 
had been taking my dowers to a sick boy, and his 


286 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


mother said ‘ he liked them, but he liked something 
good to eat a great deal better.’ So I asked mother 
to furnish me with goodies to make a welcome for 
my flowers, and she mildly remarked that it would 
be good practice if I made the delicacies myself, 
which I proceeded to do, and produced a jelly that 
refused to ‘ jell,’ and some whipped cream that sud- 
denly came to butter.” 

All laughed heartily, but Grace was not to be 
interrupted. 

“You must hear me out,” she said. “As I didn’t 
know where properly to look for a suitable and suf- 
fering old woman, I asked the mother of my hungry 
boy, and she told me she knew of one who was 
always ill, or in a chronic state of ^ being poorly ; ” 
so I looked her up, and she w^as ugly enough and 
untidy enough, with her lame foot ever up in a 
chair, to make me worthy of great credit for going 
near her at all.” 

“ That’s good ! ” broke in Dot. “ There’s no virtue 
at all in going to see dear, sweet, agreeable young 
ladies, eh, Euth ? ” 

“I hope you taught her to be tidy,” suggested 
Edith, playfully ; “ that’s a part of the missionary 
work, you know.” 

“ How, queenie, if you let them interrupt me so, I 
shall never be able to finish my report.” 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


287 


Go on, dear, I am anxious to hear.” 

“Well, as I told you, I found my old woman. 
She wasn’t a Quaker ; she wasn’t sweet ; she didn’t 
care for the stars or the summer midnight sky ; but 
she was lame and miserable, and so I bestowed upon 
the dingy, stuffy room the light and bloom of Mar- 
garet’s flowers.” 

“ Quite poetical,” said Edith, approvingly ; “ go 
on.” 

“Well, one morning I had quite a struggle with 
myself to go around that way when I went out. 
The flowers were lovely. Crystal had arranged them 
be wi tellingly, and, if the truth must be told, girls, I 
wanted to keep them myself. But I resisted, and 
did my whole duty with those flowers.” 

“ And had your reward,” broke in Dot. 

“ And had my reward,” repeated Grace ; “ for as I 
ran down stairs there were rolled after me blessings 
in the name of the ‘ howly Virgin,’ and all the saints. 
But an hour or two later I had occasion to pass that 
way again, and whom should I meet but Bell Finch, 
with a lovely cluster of roses in her belt. I looked 
at them in surprise. Had my roses died in disgust 
on the spot where I had left them, and come to life 
again, and found a fltting resting-place on a lady’s 
dainty dress? I could but stare, and Bell said, smil- 
ing, ‘ Are they not lovely ? I buy them three times 


288 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


a week, as I pass tins waj in mv walk, from an old 
woman on the corner. I don’t know where she 
buys them, but they are always fresh, as if j ust cut.’ 
I bade her good-morning without much further talk, 
and hastened on around the corner. Yes, there she 
was! my lame old woman who couldn’t put her 
foot down to save her life, trudging smartly on to 
the liquor store in the next street. I waited till she 
emerged, with a black bottle under her tattered 
shawl ; and when she came out I stood still, prepared 
to see her drop down on her lying knees, over- 
whelmed with remorse and shame.” 

“ I declare this grows tragic,” said Dot. 

“ Go on, go on ! ” said Margaret, whose face was 
earnest and sad. “ What did she do ? ” 

“ Did she run ? ” asked Edith. 

“Kun! She just stopped on the sidewalk and 
glared at me, her face red with anger. ‘ Bad luck to yez, 
and the likes of yez,’ she said ; ‘ it’s myself that’s got 
a child iv me own a dale purtyer and a dale dacenter 
nor yez, wid all yur durrty plants a-smellin’ in dacent 
bodies’ houses. She’s lift me, she has, all alone in 
me ould age, and I'll have to put the dhrap iv whisky 
in me bones, to git the strength to be runnin’ the 
whole world over afther her. But I'll find her yit,’ 
said she, ‘ I’ll find her yit, ye blackguard ! ’ ” 

So dramatic was Grace’s manner, and so excellent 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


289 


her imitation, that the girls received the full impres- 
sion of the woman’s wretched degradation, and felt 
no inclination to laugh ; and Crystal turned sharply 
away from the recital, and stood gazing from the 
window. But Margaret saw her start and shiver at 
the closing words ; and when she turned and faced* 
them her face was troubled and white. 

‘‘Well, dear girls, you know I said, when I gave 
you the flowers, that your mothers must decide as to 
the places where you could go. I could not help 
you to do any thing by which you might be exposed 
to disease, or come in contact with rude or vicious 
people, or incur the least danger of insult. Crystal 
here tells me that flowers are always gladly wel- 
comed at the hospitals, and perhaps on one or two 
mornings in the week we had better send them 
there.” 

‘Yes, dear queenie,” said Ruth; “but we are 
very careful, going only where our mothers suggest, 
and not going alone anywhere, except where we 
know all about the home. I don’t see how we are 
ever to be genuinely helpful among the poor, unless 
we do come to see how they really live.” 

“You can never help them!” broke in Crystal, 
vehemently; “it is wasting your flowers and your 
time and your strength to try. The curse of the 

poor is the drink; and you cannot stop that. All 
19 


290 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


that you try to do is like the nibbling of mice at a 
mountain, or fishes trying to drink all the sea.” She 
paused, abruptly, as if suddenly conscious of her own 
voice, and added, with a blush, “ It’s very kind, but it 
would be of no use whatever if you went on trying 
till you died.” 

She had never ventured on one utterance of 
opinion before, and Margaret was as much astonished 
as the rest, but she said, gently, 

“ I am so glad to have you speak out. Crystal ; but 
I should be sorry to feel it so hopelessly bad as you 
say. We can help little children, surely. They are 
not helplessly depraved, and they do suffer.” 

“Yes, yes; they suffer, as you, and girls like yoa, 
can never even guess; but you can do nothing for 
them, unless you can take them away. If they only 
stay long enough, they’ll be just as hopelessly bad.” 

“ Then the best thing is to get Biddy Dolan into the 
country as fast as ever we can,” said Margaret, feeling 
that the time had come again to see if one spark of 
feeling had been roused in Crystal’s heart ; but the 
girl flushed and answered, vehemently, 

“The best thing for Biddy Dolan, or for any of 
tlie children of the drunken poor, is to die ! ” 

Then she turned and left the room. 

“ You see, girls, that we are finding out,” said Mar- 
garet, “ how sore and suffering life may be made for 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


291 


innocent people bj the drink and the sin it brings in 
its train. We must not give up our thought of help- 
ing or saving or healing wherever we can. We shall 
make mistakes, waste efforts, be tired and disheart- 
ened, but we must do good. I’m sure you all 
feel about it as I do, and we will all keep on trying 
in our own way. The flower experiment is not a 
failure ; I do not see why it should not be ultimately 
a great success. If we could find only a few persons 
who loved the flowers enough to try to cultivate 
them, and we could furnish them with a plant for 
the window, why, even in the kitchens they must do 
good.” 

“Yes, for a plant will call for a clean spot for 
itself, and the owner may begin to tidy up the place 
to make it a fit home for the flowers,” answered 
Grace. 

“ That’s what I mean when I call them angels — 
God’s messengers to fluttej their petals, like wings, 
against the closed doors of the heart. Why, I have 
seen the tears come at the sight of one little flower. 
Of course, we must go on.” 

“ Y es, yes,” they all agreed, and parted for the day. 


292 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


CHAPTEK Y. 

So interested liad they been in all their recent 
meetings, in the new work that seemed opening out 
before them, that Margaret fancied their next art 
meeting would not be a success. Nevertheless, they ' 
all looked forward to it with interest, as at this time 
they were each to bring the friend. When the 
hour arrived, Margaret presented Crystal, and Ruth 
introduced Lucy Reed, the young girl from her 
mother’s Sunday-school class, a very gentle and 
lovel}^ J(>ung woman, notwithstanding the cashmere 
frock which had faded to a rusty brown. Helen 
Marsh came leading in a tall brunette, about fifteen 
years old, whose dark hair and flashing black eyes 
made a marked contrast to the golden locks and 
tender blue eyes of Crystal Neil. Her name was 
Bella — Beilina her mother called her, and she was 
the daughter of Helen’s music-master. Edith had 
had to seek for a companion, and had found her in 
Clara Lee, a type-setter, sometimes employed in the 
same establishment which had given work to Stella 
White, the poor girl whose need had been the source 
of all their distribution of flowers. 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


293 


And now they were all there but Dot, who sur- 
prised them shortly by appearing in company with 
the invalid herself. As mentioned, she had con- 
stantly grown stronger, but had never yet been 
equal to coming to sit among the . flowers. Nor 
would she have come now, had not Dot coaxed 
her out into the sunshine, urging that she miglit 
make it less embarrassing for her own friend, Clara 
Lee. Yery cordially they all welcomed her, and 
made for her a cushioned seat near Margaret’s side. 

There was a good deal of merry talk, and Mar- 
garet’s aunt sent in a tray with biscuits and chocolate, 
over which the old members of the class became ac- 
quainted with the new ; and, by the time the lesson 
began, the shyness of the latter had in a measure 
worn away. 

Then Margaret told them briefly of the pleasant 
talks on various subjects which she had enjoyed when 
they were only “ half a dozen,” and of their wish to 
enlarge the circle of their pleasure by inviting others 
to share it. She told them she thought they could 
be mutually helpful, by dividing the labor, so that 
each should contribute her share. 

She then proceeded to illustrate their method for 
the new friends, by calling upon the old for the re- 
sults of their examination of the subject in hand. 
Grace Merrill produced a brief historical sketch of 


294 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


the principal events transpiring in his own and other 
countries in the time of Leonardo da Yinci. Edith 
Grant offered a few biographical facts concerning the 
eminent men who were his contemporaries. E-uth 
had tried to make a short outline of the condition of 
the arts, and especially of the art of painting at the 
period of Leonardo’s life ; and Dorothy Hall, who 
had persuaded her father to discuss the matter with 
her, had some thoughts to offer on the source and 
power of the religious sentiment in art. 

Then followed general questions and statements 
concerning the artist’s character, education, and 
work. His time, his social surroundings, the char- 
acter and the court of the great French monarch who 
was his patron, all came in for their share of the 
morning’s talk. 

And thus delightfully the stream of conversation 
flowed, until they came to the study of his pictures, 
as represented by Margaret’s engravings and photo- 
graphs; and then to the consideration of his great 
masterpiece, the Cenecola, or Last Supper, painted 
on the wall of the refectory in an old convent at 
Milan. 

By this time I need not say all were greatly inter- 
ested, and they made a lovely group as they gathered 
around the table on which the prints were spread, 
and studied the varying expression of the faces of 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


295 


the apostles, and gradually centered their attention, 
as Margaret meant they should, upon the face of 
Christ. Then she told them of the time when she 
saw all that remains of the painting ; of its present 
fast fading condition ; of the copies from which her^ 
prints were made; of the discovery of the original 
drawings of all the heads, except that of Christ. All 
these are things which, if our younger readers do not 
know, they will find pleasure in looking up for them- 
selves; or, perhaps several of them together will 
enjoy searching among books or asking parents and 
teachers to tell them the facts brought out by the 
study of these girls. To tell all these things by de- 
tailing all their conversations would take too much 
of our space, as well as rob you of the chief delight 
in knowledge, which is not knowing, but seeking to 
know. I must not, however, forget to add one thing 
that Margaret never forgot in her lovely work among 
her young friends. When they came to contemplate 
the pictured face of Christ, she ceased to draw the 
others out, and told them how many years Leonardo 
studied over that head ; how his conception of 
Christ’s character seemed to grow with every sketch, 
until he felt it impossible ever to embody his ideal, 
and often abandoned the hope. Yet, whether he 
gave himself up to science, or to the brilliant social 
life that awaited him, this one face haunted him, till 


296 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


at last it found its way to the canvas, and became the 
world’s finest pictured type of the love and power 
of Christ. She talked a little of him as the one char- 
acter worthy of a life-time’s study, of the blessedness 
of such a knowledge as made the life a careful follow- 
ing of him. She dwelt upon his beauty, and the talk 
ended with this : 

“ 1 like to study his pictured face, girls ; and I have 
seen nearly every celebrated representation of him 
on canvas or in marble ; but I think there is a way 
in which every one, even girls like ourselves, may be 
artists, and may reproduce in ourselves, and those 
about us, real and living images of Christ. And tliat 
higher art is the one we want to study most. Leo- 
nardo lived to show the world the loveliness of 
Christ. But all the love and all the goodness in the 
world is a part of himself ; and so we can be helping 
to reveal him whenever we help any human being to 
be good or can be so ourselves. When we go with 
our flowers among the sick ; when we share our good 
things with others ; when we help little children to 
be happy ; we increase the goodness and the love in 
human lives, and are thus showing Christ to the 
world, as truly as the great artist did. I did not 
mean to make it a Sunday-school lessson,” she added, 
smiling, as she gathered up the prints ; “ but we are 
all so young, and we are all pleased with the idea of 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


297 


an artist’s career. Let ns be artists, indeed, repro- 
ducing every-wliere the image of him who went about 
doing good.” 

“ What subject shall we take next. Queen Madge ? ” 
asked Dot, breaking in upon the gentle hush that fol- 
lowed Margaret’s closing words. 

“ Could we not have the same topic once more ? ” 
added Edith. “ I feel as if I was just ready to begin 
to study the picture, after all we have heard to-day.” 

“ And I just begin to see how little I know about 
it,” said Ruth. 

“Yery well, then. Suppose you girls that have 
studied one aspect of the subject, exchange with 
others ; for example, you, Edith, who gave us the 
biography, change with Grace, who had the history, 
and these who have had access to books find and loan 
a book to those new friends who have not yet begun 
to work.” 

And then they broke up into pleasant chatty 
groups, and all talked at once, as girls will, and the 
faces of the strangers grew bright, as they came to 
feel thoroughly at home. When they separated, 
Margaret went to her room with a happier heart 
than she had known for a long, long time. 

“ I feel as if we had really begun, auntie dear,” she 
said. And her aunt spread a light shawl over her, 
as she lay on the sofa. “We are, at last, in close and 


298 


A Faie Half-Dozen. 


real contact with at least six persons, whose lives we 
can uplift and help ; and, if we count some one soul 
in each home to which the flowers go, we have at 
least six more.” 

“ Well, if you are each reaching two lives with the 
touch of kindness, your life-work is truly begun. 
Now, the problem is to make the good you mean to 
do really a good in their lives.” 

“ And I suppose,” said Margaret, gently, “ that the 
surest way is to stimulate others to use their own 
powers, rather than to remove the need.” 

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Warren, earnestly; “the 
true principle of helpfulness, whether for body, 
mind, or soul, is to help others to help themselves. 
That is our problem. Just in proportion that we do 
this, we truly help.” 

“ That’s a good motto for us, then, auntie. I will 
propose it to the girls. ‘ Help others to help them- 
selves, and every thing that tends to that we may 
properly try ! ” 

“Yes, and every thing that diminishes the impres- 
sion in any mind that its progress depends on any 
thing but itself, weakens and perverts. We can 
arouse desire for improvement, and supply the op- 
portunity, but we must not do for others any thing 
that, by the exercise of their own faculties, they 
could do for themselves.” 


A Faik Half-Dozen. 


299 


“ And that applies to things done for outward com- 
fort, as well as inward growth, I suppose?” asked 
Margaret. 

“ Yes, my dear. It would be of little use for your 
flower girls, for example, to spend the time every 
morning in the homes to which they take the flowers, 
in making the room and the bed and the invalid tidy 
and comfortable ; but to do just enough to show them 
the better w^ay ; and then, to teach them, little by 
little, to make themselves cleaner and more com- 
fortable, would be a wonderful work. But I must 
leave you to rest now, dear child. You have had 
quite talk enough for one morning ; ” and her aunt 
kissed the pale face, and left her to repose. 

Not many days later Mrs. Warren returned from a 
visit to the hospital, and sought Margaret in her room. 

“ I have been going through the wards of the con- 
valescents this morning ; and, as I saw one pale face 
after another beginning to brighten with the hue of 
liealth, I remembered Crystal and our little talk 
about providing homes and work for the young 
women on their discharge.” 

“Are there many young women among the con- 
valescents, auntie ? ” 

Yes, at least twenty, who will be sent away within 
a month.” 

“ And how many of these have homes ? ” 


300 


A Fate Half-Dozen. 


“ Yerj few, I fear; but I have not yet inquired.” 
Margaret looked thoughtful awhile; then, sud- 
denly, her face brightened, and she clasped her hands 
together with sudden enthusiasm. 

“ Dear auntie, do you not think, we might begin 
now, at once, and do something for these young girls 
who have no homes ? ” 

What can we do at once ? ” 

“ Is the hospital not a proper place for some of our 
girls, our half-dozen, I mean to visit ? ” 

“Certainly, my child, every thing is clean, and 
tidy, and quite safe.” 

“ There is no danger of contagion ? ” 

“Not at all. The convalescents are quite sepa- 
rated from any such danger ; and, indeed, it is not a 
hospital for such diseases. Contagious cases are not 
brought to us, if the disease is defined.” 

“Then, why should not our girls go there and 
become acquainted with the convalescents, and so 
become interested in them ? ” 

“ And then return and tell you all about them, and 
see if you can devise some plan of help ? ” 

“ Yes, dear, auntie; it will do us as much good as 
it will the patients. We don’t know any thing, prac- 
tically, about suffering.” 

“I think you do, my darling,” said Mrs. Warren, 
bending to kiss Margaret’s cheek. 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


301 


“Yes, I know a little; enough, thank God, to 
make me care for the suffering of others.” 

“Well, I like jour plan, dear auntie. Perhaps, if 
you young girls become interested, the ladies may 
be induced to help you carry out your idea.” 

“ When can we begin, auntie ? ” 

“Well, every week some of the ladies visit the 
wards. My next visiting day comes on Friday. On 
Wednesday your class comes together.” 

“ And I will tell them of this plan, and see if we 
get volunteers,” said Margaret. 

“If you do, I will take the girls with me on Fri- 
day, and they can come to you afterward with their 
report.” 

And the girls came as usual, with their bright fresh 
faces and happy hearts ; and, after the lesson, Mar- 
garet talked to them of the theme that was upper- 
most in her mind. She had hoped that Crystal 
would be among the volunteers; but she seemed to 
be the only one who did not meet the proposition 
with enthusiasm. She sat in silence, with compressed 
lips and an air of pained reserve, while Margaret 
went over the plan. It ended in three of the girls 
deciding to go with Mrs. Warren, on her next vi>it 
to the convalescents’ ward ; and three others were to 
go the following week, with the lady whose visits 
alternated with those of Mrs. Warren. In each 


302 


A Faie Half-Dozen. 


group of three was one of tlie new members, Lucy 
Heed and one other deciding to go with Huth, and 
Bella, on the following week, was to go with Helen 
Marsh. 

On Friday morning they gathered at Mrs. War- 
ren’s, eager and happy, as if the errand promised a 
new pleasure. Crystal had busied herself with ar- 
ranging many tiny bouquets, but had uttered not one 
word as to their disposition. An hour later, they 
were passing, with Mrs. Warren, from couch to 
couch, in the long corridor, fast recovering from any 
timidity at the strange sight, and were met every- 
where with brightened eyes and looks of gratification. 

They made a picture fair enough to gladden the 
tired eyes of invalids weary with longing for a sight 
of the green fields and the blue sky. Huth’s sweet, 
loving face passed smilingly from one bed to another, 
while Lucy Keed’s gentle voice lingered in quiet talk 
in the ear of more than one weary woman. 

At the last moment the girl who was to accompany 
Kuth was detained, and Bella, the Italian, took her 
place. Standing by one of the beds with Mrs. War- 
ren,. the patient, a woman of about twenty-six years, 
lifted her dark eyes gratefully to her face. 

“ This woman is Italian, Bella,” said Mrs. Warren, 
“ and I thought she might be glad to see some one 
from her own land.” 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


303 


Quick as thought, in the warm kindliness of her 
southern nature, Bella laid her hand upon the thin 
one that rested on the coverlet, and stooped and 
kissed the pale brow. Tears gushed from the sick 
woman’s eyes, while Bella soothed her by gentle talk 
in their own tongue. Soon she knew the woman’s 
history. Herself the daughter of a musician, Beilina 
knew how to sympathize with this poor creature 
who had come to this country after the death of her 
husband, believing her voice would create welcome 
and home. And for a time it had done both, and 
she had been able to support herself and her little 
boy. But the chill of the first northern winter 
proved too severe for her, and the voice, which was 
her only chance of support, seemed broken and gone. 
Severe illness set in. She had grown poorer and 
poorer in her solitary room; had become delirious 
with fever, and when the neighbors found her there, 
and she was removed to the hospital, her boy was left 
to the care of a kind woman in the same house, who 
took her little Guido in to share her scanty fare of 
‘^praties,” with her own Hibernian lads. All this 
was poured rapidly, in her own beautiful tongue, into 
the ear of Beilina, who, finding her agitation was 
growing beyond her control, promised to go and see 
her little boy ; and then said, gently, 

How, be quiet, arnica mia^ or Mrs. Warren will 


304 : 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


not allow me to come again. Rest now, and I will 
go and see your Guido, and perhaps I can bring him 
to see you, if you are strong enough to bear it.” 

And then, hushing her sobs, the poor thing mur- 
mured, 

“ All I it has given me life to hear once more my 
own language. I feared never to liear it again ; that 
I should never sing, nor hear any one sing, nor even 
speak home words again.” 

“ Try to rest, now, and I will sing a little song of 
our own land to you,” said Bella. 

And she lay back quietly, while the sweet voice stole 
soothingly out upon the hushed air of the room. 
Closed eyes opened, as if the poor souls had been 
taken suddenly from the white walls to the sight of 
green fields, and the song of summer birds. Bowed 
heads were lifted, and the listless, weary look passed 
from many a face. She sang Italian songs, soft and 
low ; she sang again, in English, hymns that they all 
knew, and pleasant home strains that went to the 
hearts, and brightened the eyes, and cheered and 
rested the weary souls. And when, at the end of the 
hour, Mrs. Warren took the girls away, she no longer 
questioned whether the visitors were too young to 
enter upon their work of comforting the suffering 
world. 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


305 


CHAPTER YL 

One week later three other girls made their visit 
to the convalescent ward of the hospital, laden, as 
before, with dainty clusters of flowers. This time 
there was no singing, but Dorothy, who was an in- 
telligent reader, read aloud some cheerful and hu- 
morous selections, which brought smiles to the faces 
of the invalids, and left an atmosphere of cheerful- 
ness about the place. Beilina’s new friend scanned 
the young faces eagerly, but Mrs. Warren sent her a 
kind message by Dot, who assured her that Beilina 
should visit her on the following day. 

On Saturday morning, tlierefore, Bella came to 
Mrs. Warren, leading by the hand a lovely boy, 
of five years of age, with the soft dark eyes and 
olive cheeks of his mother. 

Mrs. Warren had talked with Margaret of the 
propriety of allowing Bella to go by herself into the 
tenement-house quarter, where the poor mother had 
left her boy. And Margaret had told her aunt that 
one part of her plan was to acquaint her girls with 
the actualities of the homes of the poor. 

Just how to do this, and, at the same time, to make 
20 


306 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


sure of thorough protection, was one of the prob- 
lems not yet settled, and that could only be decided 
by the results of experiment. 

After some discussion, Mrs. Warren said : 

“Well, in this instance, I will go first alone. Then, 
if it is not suitable for Beilina to go by herself, I will 
go again with her. If it is well for her to go, I will 
say nothing of having preceded her, for I want to 
make this a work of the girls themselves, in so far as 
that can be done.” 

“You are so wise, auntie dear,” said Margaret. 
“ It is better for them to feel that the new work is 
their own, and that their own faculties must devise 
methods and execute plans. Am I right in thinking 
it important that they should know the poor as they 
are ? ” 

“ Certainly, my child : to know a few things about 
the poor is not sufficient. To be really helpful, there 
must be real knowledge of people and conditions as 
they are, not as they are supposed to be, or as they 
ought to be.” 

“I have thought perhaps the girls might go in 
pairs. Two would be safe and useful where one 
might fail.” 

Nevertheless, for this time, Beilina went alone, 
and came back triumphant, bringing with her the 
beautiful, but ragged, boy. 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


307 


Margaret’s eyes grew soft and tender, as she drew 
the little fellow to her side, and parted the curls 
from his brow. 

“ So you are going to see mamma, are you ? ” she 
asked. “ Well, we must send you clean to her. Here, 
Crystal, will you go out and find a little suit of fresh, 
plain clothes; and come back and give him a bath 
and bring him to me, when he is ready ? ” 

While Crystal was gone, Margaret asked Beilina to 
stay and help her prepare the flowers to be taken to 
the sick. And she improved the opportunity to be- 
come acquainted with her, and to draw out her views 
as to what could be done for her countrywoman. 

“ I was so glad to And you had such a beautiful 
gift to offer the sufferers. My aunt told me how 
they were gladdened and cheered by your voice.” 

“ I am very happy, I am sure, if I gave any 
pleasure. I felt very timid about trying; but the 
poor woman’s eyes seemed so hungry for something, 
and I thought the music would soothe her.” 

“ It was a lovely thing to do ; and if I had a voice 
like yours, I should be only too glad to use it to bless 
the weary and disheartened. I used to sing a little 
when a young girl ; but, for many yeays, I have not 
been able to go out to hear music.” 

“Perhaps — perhaps,” said Bella, timidly, “I could 
sing sometimes for you.” 


308 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


“It would make me very happy,” answered Mar- 
garet ; “ and I will ask you to sing for us all some- 
times. Do you suppose you could sing with us, and 
train our voices, so that we could sing together ? ” 

“ I might. Father intends me to teach, and I could 
at least try.” 

“ And, meantime, would you be willing to join the 
other girls, if we form a little plan of visiting the 
hospital weekly ? There are other hospitals, homes, 
and asylums for sick women and children, where a 
little music would be a great delight.” 

“What a lov^ely work it would be, if one only 
had time to visit them all, and sing to the pa- 
tients ! ” 

“Well, perhaps, by and by, when we are regularly 
organized as a band of workers, we can manage a visit 
to some of them, at least once a month, if we can 
make a band of half a dozen, who will either sing 
or read ; it would not be severe for any. Perhaps 
Guido’s mother may help.” 

“ Yes, if her voice is not hopelessly gone.” 

“ Ah ! I hope not. What do you think is the best 
thing we can do for her, Bella ? ” 

“Just for the present, nothing. She is not to leave 
the hospital for some weeks yet.” 

“ Have you talked with your father, Bella ? ” 

“Yes, and he says he will try to help her to pupils ; 


A Faie Half-Dozen. 


309 


and, if lier voice is unimpaired, to secure an oppor- 
tunity for her to sing in church.” 

“ But what shall we do for a home for her mean- 
time?” 

‘‘ Mother says, if ours will serve, she will take her 
in until she gets upon her feet.” 

“Ah ! that is indeed lovely,” said Margaret. “Tell 
your mother she is the pioneer in this hospital work.” 

“ How so ? ” asked Bella. 

“ Why, we are anxious to find homes that will 
admit the convalescents until they are strong and 
work is secured, and your mother is the first that has 
offered.” 

Just here Crystal returned with the beautiful boy, 
bathed and combed, and clad in a fresh suit, holding 
up his rosy mouth to Margaret for a kiss. She 
snuggled him closely for a moment, and, filling his 
hands with roses, sent him away to his mamma. 

Bella took the basket of flowers to the bedside of 
the mother ; and, after such a time of delight as went 
further than medicine to effect her recovery, the little 
man was sent with the tiny bouquets from bed to 
bed. Half - roguishly, half -timidly, he approached 
with his little treasure, welcomed every-where with 
eager, smiling glances ; and then, before the out- 
stretched hands could grasp him, darted back to his 
mother’s side. 


310 


A Faie Half-Dozen. 


Ho better physician ever appeared in any conva- 
lescent’s ward tlian this little radiant - faced boy. 
People who had long ago forgotten their childhood ; 
mothers whose little ones had been hidden away in 
the neglected graves of the poor-lot ; or whose chil- 
dren were waiting in wretched homes for mother to 
get well, all followed the little prattler with eager 
eyes. And when Bella coaxed him from his moth- 
er’s arms, and took him away, he left behind him a 
blessing, such as was not always left even by the 
Sunday sermon or psalm. And one rebellious old 
woman, bowed with chronic rheumatism, muttered, 
as she passed : 

“ A body might even read a tract, if they sent tha*t 
little chap with it.” 

When the girls made their report at the next meet- 
ing, it proved that there were five young women, 
besides Guido’s mother, in the hospital, who would 
soon be in need of a home and work. All the other 
convalescents were, for the moment, those who would 
return to their own families or situations. 

Margaret talked freely of her hope that homes 
might be found for these, until work could be pro- 
cured, and told them of the kindness of Bella’s 
mother in offering to take the poor Italian woman 
in. 

“ I hardly see how we young girls can find places,” 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


311 


said Ruth ; “ but our mothers could help us, per- 
haps.” 

“ Suppose we each take one girl to provide for,” 
said Edith. 

“Yes, that is my thought,” answered Margaret. 
“ Let each of the six interest herself in her visits to 
the hospital in some one girl. Learn all about her 
that she is willing to tell, and all that you can judge 
without her telling. Ascertain what she has been 
accustomed to do, and what are her capacities, and 
to what special work she is adapted.” 

“ Then we should be able to find work for them, 
perhaps,” said Dot, eagerly. 

“Yes,” answered Grace; “if not in the field in 
which they have toiled before, possibly in a better 
one. The best thing about our each taking one is, 
that each girl, will then feel she goes out with a 
friend, with some one to be interested in her career.” 

“ And what an incalculable blessing such a friend 
may be !” said Margaret. “ Think of it. You go to 
a girl when she is feeble and lonely ; you show her 
that you care about her welfare ; you are willing to 
work for her ; you help her to find occupation ; you 
are still her friend. You learn about her leisure; 
you suggest a pleasant way to pass an hour ; help her 
to a nice book, or even a walk, or a little pleasure, 
such as girls like you can always easily provide. By 


312 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


and by you find out if she goes to church and the 
Sunday-school, and what company she keeps. Ah! you 
smile, my dear girls, but you will not need to watch 
to find out most of this — she will tell you, if you give 
her a chance ; she will open her heart, if yon are not 
too occupied with yourselves to listen. You can help, 
you can guide. If you find her head from very emp- 
tiness turns to pleasures she should not have, give a 
fragment of your time to teaching her something she 
does not know: how to keep accounts; how to cut 
out garments; how to make a fiower grow in her 
window. Any thing that you do yourself she will be 
glad to learn.” 

“ Ah, Madge ! Queen Madge ! what an inspiration 
you are ! I want to go straight to the hospital this 
afternoon and seize my girl,” said Edith, whose en- 
thusiasm had filled her eyes with tears. 

All laughed, and Margaret went on, quietly : 

“Well, the sooner you each go, the better. If six 
of us act as a committee to see the girls and find 
them work, then the other six can be a committee to 
find homes Jor those not strong enough for service. 
And just now we want five homes. 

So the girls divided themselves into pairs, two for 
each convalescent, and on the morrow proceeded to 
their work. Mrs. Warren promised to mention their 
plan to the Board of Managers, and the result was an 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


313 


offer of two places at once. The other four places 
were found by the girls interested, by inquiry among 
their own and their mothers’ friends for places where 
half a girl’s time should be considered an equivalent 
for her care. The other half should be given to rest 
and recuperation, and such preparation in wardrobe 
and other particulars as should be needed for lier new 
place. Fortunately they had not much difficulty vdth 
the first half-dozen girls ; finding places almost at 
once, and more than were needed ; for ladies re- 
sponded with great kindliness as soon as the object 
of the work was thoroughly understood. A register 
was opened, in which the extra places were entered, 
and this was put in charge of Huth, and each girl 
pledged herself to mention the matter in her circle 
of friends, and to bring addresses of those homes 
which would receive a girl. This, with the length 
of time which one might be permitted to stay, were 
recorded in Ruth’s little book, and it was soon de- 
cided to keep a record, also, of each convalescent’s 
name, age, former occupation, and residence, that the 
all-important items concerning her that would enable 
the little band to follow her with help and comfort 
and cheer might be preserved. 

Having arranged the whole matter, they felt quite 
as if they had begun to work. To Ruth, the one of 
their number who was a governess, they gave the 


314 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


duty of asking tlie families that employed her to let 
her know whenever their friends needed nurses, or 
nursery governesses, in their homes. To Clara Lee 
they gave the task of securing a list of the printing 
establishments where women were employed. Mar- 
garet’s father, also, promised to put her in communi- 
cation with a number of manufacturing industries 
which employed girls. It seemed to him rather an 
impracticable scheme ; but he would spare no pains 
to do what his precious, suffering child desired. He 
knew the faithful working of her patient heart ; and, 
if he could bring it about, that a note from her, say- 
ing that she knew another woman to be faithful, ear- 
nest, and competent, should open the doors of honest 
labor, he was more than glad. 

They sent to the box and card makers, to the con- 
fectioners, to the paper and envelope makers, to the 
unusual as well as the more distinctly womanly indus- 
tries, a little note concerning this ban’d of girls, bound 
together to help and succor other girls. And the re- 
sult was, as he hoped, a friendly recognition of the 
effort — an expression of pleasure at being able to se- 
cure employees who were known and approved, and 
a promise of co-operation and help. 

Soon some of the manufacturers, after having em- 
ployed one or more girls who came with Marga- 
ret’s card, began to send to her whenever vacancies 


A Faie Half-Dozen. 


315 


occurred, and the new organization thus promised to 
he a source of real comfort and help. 

The girls were enthusiastic, each ready to be de- 
tailed in turn for visiting the bedsides of the sick. 
They began to look in books and periodicals for brief, 
entertaining items, which they brought to Margaret, 
in whose hands the collection grew, and was assorted; 
so they soon had something for almost every need. 
Grave or gray, tender or spirited, the girls could 
always find something for every bedside in the large 
envelopes kept in their own pigeon-hole in Mar- 
garet’s desk. Then, as time passed on, they began to 
sing together, under the training of Bella and the 
poor Italian mother, who entered gratefully into the 
work. Such songs as she and Bella sang together 
she taught the others, so that out of the twelve who 
now formed the class in art study, they were able to 
form three quartettes, who sang occasionally in the 
women’s hospitals, and the nurseries for sick chil- 
dren. Two by two they still carried flowers, and 
little by little they became familiar with many fam- 
ilies of the deserving poor. 


316 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


CHAPTEK YII. 

‘‘What is the Hse of visiting, if we talk only a few 
minutes and leave a tract?” asked impetuous Dot, 
one day, as they were opening their budgets of ex- 
perience to Margaret. 

They were all around her table, and she was gath- 
ering, from the accounts of each, impressions as to the 
amount of real good they were able to do. 

“Why, my dear Miss Hall,” said Clara Lee, quick- 
ly, “ to see a face like yours is a blessing to the very 
poor. You don’t know how they, the women and 
children, especially, feel it that any one cares enough 
to come.” 

“Hot always,” said Helen; “I have called at 
places where it seemed to me they felt it a condescen- 
sion or an impertinence.” 

“Well, ordinary visiting is too frequently one or 
the other,” answered Margaret ; “ but we do not wish 
ours to be either.” 

“ But, how in the world can we do people good, 
who are slovenly and untidy, who live little better 
than the pigs, and do not seem to mind it ? ” asked 
Edith. 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


317 


“ Somebody can be made to mind,” answered Mar- 
garet. “ If the mother is untidy, we can teach the 
children better.” 

“ So we can,” answered Grace ; “ and in my fam- 
ilies I have tried it. I found, down in B. street, a 
' mother ill ; the family in two rooms, every thing in 
disorder — a most discouraging prospect.” 

“Well, we all find things that way. How what 
did you do?” 

“ I only carried my flowers the first day, and spoke 
a few words to the poor woman, and came away. 
There was a girl of thirteen there, and she said to 
me, as I left, ‘ The fiowers are lovely, miss ; ’ and I 
answered, ‘Yes, but they want a nice, clean little 
place all to themselves. Couldn’t you take away the 
plate with your mother’s breakfast, and the pipe and 
the ashes from the table, and make it nice and clean ; 
and wash the mug out nicely, and see how much 
sweeter the fiowers will be?’ Well, the next day 1 
went again, and took a glass of mother’s jelly to the 
woman. The table had been scoured white, and the 
mug replaced by a glass which shone ; and the child 
watched me timidly, to see if I noticed it.” 

“ Of course you did ? ” 

“ Certainly, I told her how nice it seemed to me to 
see it sweet and clean, and asked her if I should show 
her how to make the whole room so. And I taught 


318 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


lier how to moisten her broom and get the dust, with- 
out raising a cloud around the bed ; and I bought 
lier a dust-brush to be all her own, and she drove a 
nail to hang it on ; and, day by day, a little change 
was made, until now the rooms are as sweet as the 
scrubbing of a girl of that age can make them. And 
the mother lies there in wondering content. She 
never dreamed her poor place could be so nice ; and 
the child told me that when her father saw the white 
floor, he went to the window to knock the ashes from 
his pipe.” 

“And did you not do any of these things for 
her?” 

“Hot at all. I only tanght her how they should 
be done, and showed her a little each day. The 
trouble was that the poor child did not know how to 
do any thing, not even the smallest thing, well.” 

“In the time in which you were teaching her, 
could you have taught a half-dozen girls to do the 
same things ? ” asked Margaret. 

“Why, yes, if there had been space enough, and 
rooms dirty enough, and brooms and scrubbing- 
brushes enough; and, last, but not least, girls 
enough.” 

“Ought not the mothers to teach them all this. 
Queen Margaret ? ” 

“Yes; but who is to teach the mothers? If 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


319 


we could train the young girls coming up in 
these wretched homes to do the common house- 
hold work well, the children would then become 
the teachers.” 

“But how could that be done?” asked Grace. 
“We cannot go from house to house teaching these 
things.” 

“No; but could we not bring half a dozen girls 
together, and teach them ? Let us see how large a 
class we could gather, between nine and fourteen 
years of age, from the families where we already 
visit ? ” 

At once they could name eight; and Clara, who 
knew many humble homes besides her own, readily 
promised to find four more. 

“And now, girls, who will volunteer as teachers?” 

And one after another responded, some playfully, 
some as if very uncertain of their own powers, until 
every member of the art class, except those who were 
too feeble, had promised to do her best. 

“This is the life-class, I suppose,” said Dot; “we 
seem to be trying every form of art study.” 

“Yes, ‘onr life-class’ is not a bad name for this 
experiment,” said Margaret. “We have now our 
girls and our teachers ; but no work that needs to be 
done, and no place to teach them in. What shall 
we do?” 


320 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


“ Could we make a regular kitchen garden, and 
buy full sets of toy kitchen utensils?” asked Edith. 

“ Hardly that. That would be well, if we could 
afford it ; but we want to reach an older class than 
the kitchen gardeners ; and we want the real work 
for real workers.” 

“ If only each one of the girls’ mothers would give 
us her home for one day in the week, and let us go 
with a band of girls and actually have the work done 
under the teacher’s eye, we should, after we had 
them trained, be able to show at least a dozen model 
homes.” 

“ Ho, we could not hope for that. Slovenly human 
nature would never submit to being overlooked and 
set to rights by a throng of young creatures armed 
with dusters and brooms.” 

“Could we have them once a week in our own 
homes ? ” 

“Hot easily, I fancy,” said Helen, before whose 
mind arose a visit of the astonishment of her family, 
and of the servants in particular, should she invade 
the kitchen some fine morning at the head of an 
army of girls. 

“Heither of those plans will work, I fear,” said 
Margaret ; “ though occasionally they might be made 
to serve some special purpose. For example, I would 
be quite willing that two of them should come and 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


321 


take care of my rooms, and sweep, dust, make beds, 
arrange the drawers, etc. Auntie would let them be 
taught to wash dishes, lay tables, and clean silver ; 
but we could only try something of that sort occa^ 
sionally. It would not do to make any plan depend- 
ing upon private homes.” 

‘‘ Do you remember. Miss Margaret,” said Stella 
White, “ the asylum for little children, where my 
little brothers were placed ? There, the older chil- 
dren perform nearly all the household work.” 

Suddenly a picture flashed across Margaret’s mind, 
a thought that had been wandering vaguely in her 
brain took definiteness and shape, and she spoke it 
out at once. 

“My dear girls,” she said, eagerly, her face aglow 
with pleasure, “once, some time ago, I told my father 
I wished I could open a creche^ where poor children 
of working mothei*s could be cared for during the 
day, and have a little kindergarten teaching, as they 
were old enough for it, and he said: ‘Well, my child, 
when you are ready, I will give you the unoccupied 
cottage on F. Street.’ He thought I was joking, 
but I will talk to him at once. If I can get the 
place, we will have an orphan asylum of our own, 
and a creche^ and a kindergarten ; and, in the care 
of this house, we can have abundant opportunity 

to teach our girls. If papa will give me the cot- 
21 


322 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


tage, you will all help me to furnish it, will you 
not ? ” 

“Indeed, we will, dear Madge; and it is like all 
your plans, the very best of all.” 

When Margaret brought the project before her 
father, he made, as usual, but one objection, and that 
on the ground that his dear suffering daughter was 
taking upon herself a new responsibility, and a care 
beyond her strength. 

“ I assure you, I will not do the work, papa ; nine 
or ten other girls stand ready to help me with their 
whole hearts. Their hands will labor, their feet will 
run to do any thing I need. Only let us have the 
liouse, and I will promise to be better for it, instead 
of worse. I am happy in these things, papa ; and in 
forgetting my own pain, I think I grow strong much 
faster than if I sat here and thought only of myself.” 

And her father kissed her, and told her to have it 
as she would ; he could not deny her. 

This point gained, she held counsel with her aunt, 
a!id afterward with her young allies and friends. All 
decided that, if possible, the children to be taught 
should begin at once. 

Two girls were appointed to canvass, among the 
families already known, for girls who could come 
punctually to this house twice a week. It had been 
left in fair condition ; nevertheless, when the twelve 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


323 


girls were cliosen, it was thought best to let their 
first lessons come in arranging it for occupancy. It 
was only a cottage, standing a little back from the 
street, in a locality where brown-stone houses had 
crept up to its yard on either side. Some time, as 
Mr. Heath knew, the house would have to be re- 
moved, to make room for a finer dwelling. At pres- 
ent its rental was injured by its more attractive 
neighbors, and he was quite willing to abandon it to 
his daughter’s use. Mrs. Heed, the mother of Lucy, 
who had been brought to the band by Huth Nelson, 
and who was by this time well known to Margaret, 
was offered a home therein, to take charge of the 
house, and be a mother to whatever inmates might 
ultimately find a refuge there. 

And here, one bright morning, came a band of a 
dozen girls, with enough of Margaret’s corps to act 
as teachers ; and for three hours, under guidance, 
they swept, and dusted, and scoured ; after which 
they were furnished with dinner and sent home, each 
with a trifling sum of money, the first she had ever 
earned in her life. 

A few days later the same girls were gathered at 
Margaret’s house, where she explained to them that 
her object was not to hire unskilled labor, but to 
teach one dozen girls at a time how to perform well 
all the common household tasks. 


324 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


She said she would, at present, take them twice a 
week. Further on, she might like them an hour or 
two a day. The work was not to take them in their 
school hours. They would never be kept over two 
hours at any one time ; their dinner would be given 
them at first ; and the materials for their working 
frocks and aprons furnished, and they would be 
taught to make them themselves. As soon as they 
were able to take places as servants, places would be 
secured, if they wished them ; and as soon as they 
were able to perform any one class of duties per- 
fectly, as many as were needed could be employed 
at the Home at a fair rate per hour. 

She bade them tell theii* parents all about it, and 
then to join the class, or not, as they and their 
parents should decide ; and, in case they came, they 
were, with their parents’ permission, to practice in 
their homes each separate industry they learned in 
the Training School. Then a lunch was given 
them, and Bella and some of the others sang for 
them ; and they were taken into the conservatory, 
and thence sent home, each with a few flowers, and 
happy enough in the prospect of belonging to the 
“ beautiful lady’s school.” 

ISTaturally, some of the mothers were stupid, and 
did not understand ; some were unwilling, and felt 
their own untidiness rebuked ; some were ill -tern 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


325 


pered, and jealous of any effort to improve their 
condition ; and a few fancied it was only a new 
way by which the rich should get their work for 
nothing from the children of the poor ; but there 
were, notwithstanding all this, more children eager 
to be taught than this unique life-class could accom- 
modate. 


326 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


CHAPTEE YIIL 

To put the “ Children’s Home ” in order proved 
no trifling task for our young workers. Furnishing 
was an item of much consideration, and one for 
which they disliked to make general appeal to the 
charitable. Its current expenses, even if the number 
of children intrusted to tliem was small, would not 
be trifling. Its matron, Mrs. Keed, was glad to give 
her supervision for her home. Lucy, her daughter, 
was to be her assistant, to keep the accounts, and to 
begin at once to qualify herself as a teacher of the 
kindergarten ; and every girl of the art class was to 
hold herself in readiness to serve as instructress in 
domestic matters, one day in every two weeks. 

What commotion this prospect made in some of 
the young ladies’ homes, was known only to them- 
selves; but girls sought the kitchens who had not 
felt it important before. Books on household econ- 
omy were read, and the young ladies suddenly woke 
to the fact that nothing less than accurate and practical 
knowledge on their own part could be made to serve 
their purpose. Yery amusing reports were brought 
to Margaret, concerning their various experiments 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


327 


and failures, at the times when they came together 
to compare and consult. And the delightful good- 
nature and energy in behalf of their undertaking, 
which laughed at difficulties and cared for no fa- 
tigues, balanced many errors in judgment, and proved 
to Mrs. Warren'S older mind the wisdom of enlisting 
the young in practical efforts for the general good. 

The very absence of the pressing cares of maturer 
life leaves an unspent vigor and force of feeling to 
be expended upon any work that calls it out. This 
very exuberance of energy promised to meet all diffi- 
culties but one, and that the important one of finan- 
cial support. This, Margaret laid before her father 
and her aunt, asking the former if it would not be 
proper for her to use, for tlie first year’s expenditure, 
a portion of the small private fortune left her by her 
mother. 

“ I shall never need it all for myself, dear papa, 
for my life does not promise to be a long one, and 
calls for little use of money beyond what is needed 
for the home comforts, which you are so ready to 
provide. 

“ Still, we never know the needs of the future, my 
child.” 

“ But ought I to hoard money for possible future 
needs, when others are in want of it now ? ” 

“Well, that is a great question, my daughter, one 


328 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


that has troubled older brains and tougher con- 
sciences than yours. Fortunately, it is not necessary 
for you to answer it. You can, if you wish, divert 
funds sufficient for this first year, without any danger 
to your own support.” 

“ Then let me do it, please, papa ! I always 
thought people should be their own executors.” 

“ That depends upon how wise they are in the dis- 
position of their goods,” answered her father, play- 
fully touching her cheek. 

This point settled, all promised well for the Home. 
They furnished only as fast as rooms were needed. 
They opened with only two children — Guido, and 
the poor little asthmatic Biddy Dolan. Until it 
should fill with children, they announced that they 
would receive young, homeless working - girls to 
board, thus saving them from seeking homes in 
third-rate boarding houses, where they must meet, at 
table and elsewhere, rude and often unprincipled 
men. 

Margaret had had frank talks with the half dozen 
girls of her class, who knew the trials and tempta- 
tions to which the homeless young w^omen are ex- 
posed, and had come to the conclusion that the one 
great need of such girls was plain, comfortable, pro- 
tected homes ; she was, therefore, secretly glad when 
Mrs. Heed asked her if a portion of the expense could 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


329 


not be met in this way, until the little children should 
crowd the older ones out. And she was troubled 
enough, when, in ’ answ^er to her announcement that 
“ a limited number of homeless girls could be cared 
for in a quiet house,” the requests for places poured 
in upon her, until six houses of the capacity of this 
one would not have held them all. She took this 
pile of applications, badly spelled some of them, 
badly written many, but all breathing the one desire 
for a home, and all sending, as requested, the occupa- 
tion, employer’s address, present residence, and a ref- 
erence. Her heart sank within her at the thought of 
sixty in a day answering an advertisement like that. 
She read some of them out to her companions. 

‘‘ I am earning,” says one, “ six dollars a week by 
tinting photographs. I pay four dollars for my 
board, and lifty cents for my washing. I send a 
dollar a week to my mother in the country. I have 
done this for four years, and, in that time, have tried 
many boarding-houses, never being able to pay more 
than the four dollars a week. And I have never 
found one in which I had a thoroughly clean room, 
or clean wholesome food ; and I might add, I have 
never found one where I did not have to meet people 
whom it did not profit one to know.” 

And this is only one of sixty,” she said ; “ and 
not by any means the most touching. And we have 


330 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


ill 'New York city alone, tliousaiids upon thousands of 
these working women.” 

“ Is it possible ? ” they asked, in astonishment. 

“Yes, and when we deduct all who live in their 
own homes, all the married women, all those finding 
homes with friends, we have still left a startling num- 
ber who must resort to boarding.” 

“Well, our three or four little rooms will not tell 
much upon the destiny of so many,” said Helen. 

“Certainly not; but we must do what we can. 
Lucy, will you answer six of these sixty letters, and 
invite the writers to come to us.” 

“ Which six. Miss Margaret ? ” 

“Those who have been longest at the boarding- 
houses,” said Alice. 

“We will leave that to a committee of Clara, 
Lucy, and Stella,” continued Margaret. “These 
three know something of the boarding-house life, 
and can judge as we cannot.” 

“ Shall we keep the other letters ? ” asked Lucy. 

“ No, but make a new heading in our register, so 
that it shall not only include girls who want work, and 
employers who want workers, but working-girls who 
want homes. When we have settled one or two 
other points, we will turn to this subject again. At 
present we must decide about fitting the room for 
the girls.” 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


331 


“ Four rooms are ready, so far as the bare furniture 
is concerned,” said Lucy. 

“Yes,” answered Grace, who was on the House 
Committee; “but there are neither sheets, pillow- 
slips, curtains, nor towels.” 

“Well, girls, what shall we do about these? ” asked 
Margaret, who more and more was trying to induce 
the girls to do their own thinking. They were silent 
a moment, and then Edith answered : 

“ I hoped we would have many of these things 
made while teaching our girls to sew, but we cannot 
wait for that.” 

“ When I was talking to one of the girls’ mothers 
about our plan,” said Helen, “ she told me that many 
women would be glad of the chance we were giving 
these children, to work by the hour, for some slight 
payment.” 

“Do you think we could find a half-dozen who 
would like the employment ? ” asked Margaret. 

“ Yes, indeed ! ” spoke up several voices at once. 

“ Could they come in the afternoon and sew at the 
Home ? ” asked Lucy. 

“ Yes, if they would not interfere with the train- 
ing classes. Lucy knows about that.” 

“]S"o, there is room enough for both,” said Lucy. 

“Very well, then. Look up the six women who 
would like to earn an honest penny by sewing in 


332 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


their hours of leisure, and bring them together the 
first possible day. Your mother will buy the ma- 
terials, Lucy, and have them all ready, there.” 

“ But it will take them some time. Queen Madge,” 
said Dot. “I think we could each ask our own 
mothers to give a pair of sheets, and towels — say 
enough for one room.” 

“Well, we need only four sets,” said Grace; “I 
know mother will give me one.” 

“ And I’ll bring one,” said Helen. 

“ And I,” added Edith. 

“Well, that will meet the need,” said Margaret, 
quickly, anxious that nothing should seem to be asked 
of those girls less able to give ; “ but our plan is not 
to beg,” she said ; “ though, we shall not refuse dona- 
tions from our friends. My aunt has kindly placed 
at our service a set of plain china from her country 
house, where she never lives, since she changed her 
home to ours. But this is our work, and we want to 
devise our ways out of its inevitable problems. We 
don’t wish the good to be retarded by our inabilities, 
neither do we wish things made so easy for us, that 
others grapple with its difficulties, and not we our- 
selves.” 

“What are we to call the Home, Queen Mar- 
garet?” asked Bella. “It surely ought to have a 
name.” 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


333 


It should be called — Queen Madge’s Eest,” said 
Dot, quickly. 

“ O, no ! ” said Margaret, that is only our own 
little name just for ourselves alone. I should not 
like to have it go out to the world ; and, besides, it is 
my father gives us the use of the Home.” 

“ Suppose we call it the Heath Asylum ? ” said 
Grace. 

“ Y es, let us name it after him,” said Alice. 

“ I don’t think it should have a name,” answered 
Margaret; “that marks it as an institution. We do 
not mean to support a charity, but to create a help 
toward making people self-supporting.” 

“ Might it not be called the Heath Home ? ” asked 
Dot. 

“ That is open to the same objection. You may 
call it the Heath House if you like, and it stands 
then like any one of a multitude of small hotels or 
boarding-houses. The very name will not then sug- 
gest that the girl who finds a home there is the re- 
cipient of a bounty.” 

“Well, that is a good name surely,” said Mrs. War- 
ren, who was passing through the room. “The 
Heath House — I think your father will like it.” 

“ And what do you think, auntie, of our giving 
each one of the ten bedrooms the name of a girl in 
our art class?” 


334 


A Faie Half-Dozen. 


“Quite a prettj" thought. Then each one would 
feel that the room bearing her name should be her 
special care.” 

“We ought to have furnished them, then,” said 
Grace; “but we could still superintend their fur- 
nishing, and supply all the dainty and pretty little 
things.” 

“All that you would or could make with your 
own hands you could supply,” said Margaret. “ You 
could, also, feel the room to be your own, and have 
some choice as to its occupants, whenever vacancies 
occur. If we name the rooms, I should pass all care 
of them, or thought about them, over to you.” 

“ But there are only ten bedrooms,” said Bella. 

“ That is just the right number, girls,” answered 
Margaret; “for I cannot go to look after one, nor 
can our feeble friend Stella do it. So you must 
leave us out.” 

“ But the room which you said we could use as a 
chapel, surely that ought to be dedicated to our 
saint.” 

And though Margaret demurred, they called it 
“ St. Margaret’s Chapel ” from that day. 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


335 


CHAPTER IX. 

It was a very fair picture tliat greeted the eyes 
of the visitor at Heath House, on a bright morning, 
a week after this meeting. In the upper floors all 
was in a state of busy preparation, for to-night the 
six new occupants were to come. In one room sat 
six women, all as tidy as their faded frocks would 
allow, all sewing away at the sheets and curtains. 
These were being prepared by Grace and Ruth, 
whose faces shone brightly above the billows of white 
muslin that fell from their laps and overflowed the 
floor. There was much talk in an undertone among 
the women, and much notice taken of half-a-dozen 
babies, who sat tied in little high chairs, pounding 
the table with their tiny fists, or crept about the rugs 
at the feet of the women, who talked to them and 
smiled at them as they worked. On a couch at the 
back of the room two little ones lay asleep. 

These children belonged to the creche already 
established, which furnished room for six children, 
whose mothers were out at work by the day. For 
the present, their attendant was a poor mother, a 
convalescent from the hospital, sent there by the 


336 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


sickness that followed the death of both her own little 
ones. She had lost them through the poison of the 
atmosphere in the crowded tenement-house, where 
one dingy room — devoid of sun and fresh air, steeped 
in the miasma of bad drainage — had been her only 
home. And, now that her poor body had crept back 
to life, they felt that in no way could they win life 
back to her desolate heart, but to fill her days with 
the loving, tender mother-care for these little ones. 

The house was overfull to-day, so the sewing 
women shared the nursery. And every woman of 
this group had been invited to see Margaret once; 
had been up to that still chamber where she lay in 
her arm-chair ; had heard her voice, and felt the 
touch of her wonderful hand ; and told her, one by 
one, ‘‘ just because they couldn’t help it,” the story 
of their trials and hopes and fears. And every one 
went down from the place willing to do for the beau- 
tiful sufferer whatever she could ask or wish. They 
were her friends for life, these hard-working, weary 
women ; made so by the touch, the look, and the 
voice of a woman, who preached them no sermons, 
gave them no chapter of good advice ; but who felt 
their burden and pain, and really grieved that life 
for them was so hard. 

So, when the Heath House sewing was done, Mar- 
garet brought their needs before her girls ; and here- 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


337 


after these same women, and many others, continued 
to come one afternoon in a week to sew. Only now 
they did not sew for money, but for themselves. 
The society of girls bought the materials, and taught 
each woman to make them into the articles most 
needed for her family or her home. She made them 
herself, and also sewed, on similar work, enough to 
pay for the material. The overwork made a surplus 
of garments, and these were sold on a certain day of 
every month, to servants, to working-girls, to people 
not too poor to buy, at prices only slightly in advance 
of the cost of material. 

Thus, little by little, the women saw new quilts, 
bed linen, table linen, and garments supplying the 
♦place of rags and dirt; and cheerfully, wlien their 
own families were supplied, they came and worked 
out the cost of material. So the circle widened 
always; and usually when they worked some one of 
the girls read to them, and sometimes Beilina came 
and sang ; or they were all invited into the chapel to 
hear explained the work of the training school, or to 
be told how to nurse the sick ; to prepare food for 
the feeble ; to make a little money go a long way in 
furnishing comfort; how to choose nutritious food; 
and, best of all, how to prepare it. 

For services like these, Mrs. Warren was always 

able to find competent ladies, who would undertake 
22 


338 


A Fair IIalb-Dozen. 


to instruct for an hour ; and in course of time these 
audiences of humble women overflowed the little 
chapel, and stood around tlie doors, and had to be 
transferred to an evening hour. Ultimately, it grew 
to be a regular thing, that every week in the winter 
there should be, in “ St. Margaret’s Hall,” something 
in the way of healthful instruction or entertainment 
for women and working-girls. 

All went prosperously from the start with the 
training-school, the only problem being that of how 
to provide for the great number who were constantly 
applying for places, in what the girls still laughingly 
called the “ Life-class.” 

As soon as it was known that the Heath House 
was really intended for orphans or destitute children,- 
the applicants became so numerous that the six girls, 
happy in their neat little rooms, knew they must 
give up their places. Before it came to that, Mar- 
garet summoned her council of girls, and divided 
among them the list of sixty names which she had 
received in answer to her advertisement for a few 
girls who desired a home, and asked her friends to 
write for each of these an invitation to pass an even- 
ing at Heath House, and to bring as many other girls 
as they knew who would be interested in a project 
for establishing boarding-houses for homeless work- 
ing-girls. 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


339 


“ Our girls are going to be crowded out by the 
orphans,” observed Margaret, “ and I cannot send 
them back to the life they have lived : I want to see 
them all together, these girls from the various parts 
of the city. I want to know whether, as a class, they 
really desire a home, or a number of homes, where 
they shall be clean, comfortable, and protected ; 
whether such homes would really be occupied by 
them, in preference to all others, at the same rates 
which they now pay. Then, I want my father and 
a few of his own and auntie’s friends and your par- 
ents, with any friends they may choose to bring, to 
meet with us. You, my dear girls, shall be the host- 
esses ; you shall sing for them, and some of us will 
read some selections, grave or humorous. You can 
easily arrange all that. There shall be a little re- 
freshment, and some talk. They shall have a pleasant 
evening, and when they are gone we will listen to 
what our older friends think of a plan for starting a 
boarding-home for girls.” 

With so many helpers the preparations were soon 
made ; and when the evening came Margaret was 
driven to the home, and her arm-chair placed in a 
corner near the platform, where she could hear all 
that was said and see the whole circle of faces of 
these girls, whose welfare lay so heavily upon her 
heart. 


340 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


What thoughts stirred her as she sat and watched, 
while tlieir faces softened under Bella’s music, or 
brightened under the reading of some amusing 
rhyme, I will not attempt to say ; but, if ever heart 
throbbed with good-will to men, hers did in that 
waiting hour. And when it was all over, and the 
various groups had scattered, walking off by twos 
and threes into the darkness, not one without having 
first heard Margaret’s cordial tones, and felt the press- 
ure of her hand, she turned eagerly to her father, 
and said : 

‘‘ How, dear papa, you have seen them, and know 
what it is we are thinking about. Please call the 
friends together, and decide what we can do to help 
these girls ! ” 

For the next hour they talked — discussing the 
need, the evil of their present homes, and the blessed 
influences that might radiate from homes like the 
one proposed — and it ended by a decision that a 
house should be leased, one of a new row in an inex- 
pensive but accessible quarter, and passed over into 
the hands of the “ Fair Half-dozen ” for the experi- 
ment they desired. This was all Margaret asked, and 
more than she hoped. 

We must pass over hastily the preparations for 
occupancy, which were made in part by inducing 
friends to furnish a room. Mrs. Warren was very 


A Faik Half-Dozen. 


341 


lielpful again, lending from her country house many 
articles that they must otherwise have bought. 

It was done at last. Its corps of servants were 
selected from the women who had been furnished 
with temporary homes on their removal from the 
hospitals. It was, in fact, only a larger training- 
school, as Margaret arranged that certain branches 
of household work should there be practically taught 
to any whom she might choose to send. The mother 
of Stella Wliite became its matron, and Stella came 
down from her attic window to a sunny room in the 
new house, whose bay window she kept fall of plants 
and flowers. Every living bit of greenness that she 
touched seemed to thrive and grow ; and as there 
was a sunny court at the rear of the house, and Mar- 
garet felt that Stella’s life depended upon the fresh 
air, she placed it in her charge, with instructions to 
cultivate there all the flowers she could, and to 
'induce the various inmates of the house, as fast as 
they came, to choose each some plant for her own, 
and to watch its nurture and growth. In this way 
Margaret thought each girl, however isolated and 
forlorn, would have some little thing that made the 
place seem home, and she knew that Stella would 
let no girl’s blossom die for want of care. 

If she thought, also, that Stella’s most beautiful 
spirit, as it came thus in direct contact with every 


342 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


girl’s heart, would be sure to nourish all the purest 
things therein, she was not far from right ; for a 
sweeter spirit than Stella’s, or one that ripened 
more blessedly for heaven, was rarely seen. 

And when the home was ready, and they threw 
it open to the girls. Queen Margaret’s heart knew but 
one regretful pang — it would only ho\d one third 
of those who wanted to come in. 


/ 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


343 


CHAPTEK X. 

Xo sooner was the new house in successful opera- 
tion than one of its members, an overworked and 
lialf-fed operator on the sewing-machine, fell ill. 
Should she go to a hospital ? Margaret, knowing 
the fear of contagion, caused the matter to be laid 
before the inmates of the house. Ruth went down 
to represent Margaret, met the girls in the parlor as 
they came up from tea, and told them the sick girl, 
a stranger to most of them, could not be taken from 
their midst. Had she fallen ill elsewhere, she said, 
“ she must have gone to a hospital. But Miss Heath 
says that when people fall ill at home, their friends 
do not send them away if it can be avoided. This is 
a home ; we are of one family here, and should we 
not keep and care for our own?” 

The little murmur of assent that ran around the 
room was sufficient answer. 

“ Yer}^ well, then, you have decided. You may 
each know that, if ill, you can be ill here at home, 
instead of in a hospital, unless there is some con- 
tagious disease. We will set apart two sunny rooms, 
one for poor Xellie Jones, and one adjoining for a 


344 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


nurse, whom we will have here to-morrow. Who 
among you will see that Hellie is cared for to- 
night?’^ 

And so many voices answered “ I will ! ” that Kuth 
smiled, and said : 

“ I must leave the selection to Mrs. White. I am 
sure, if she needs it, there will be no lack of 
help.’’ 

On the morrow the nurse, found and recommended 
by Huth, came. She was an elderly woman, with a 
fresh, bright face, and kindly blue eyes. Her sil- 
ver hair was nearly hidden by her Quaker cap, and, 
across her gray dress, the muslin handkerchief lay in 
softest folds. She was the dear old Quaker dame 
who had been comforted in her illness so long ago by 
the presence of a bright young face and the daily 
gifts of flowers. She was like a kind, cheery grand- 
mother sent in among these girls ; and more than one 
of them thought she would not unwillingly be taken 
ill that she might lie in that soft, white bed, and be 
tended by those gentle hands. Huth had never for- 
gotten her, and was quite right in believing her 
motherly presence would be a blessing in more ways 
than one. 

It was hardly to be expected that the various plans 
for helping others to help themselves should long 
progress without the workers coming in contact with 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


345 


persons who would not, or persons who could not, be 
helped. 

Hot all the poor women who, from time to time, 
came to their sewing-school, proved eager to do their 
best ; not all their young girls were of the grateful 
and appreciative sort; not all the children of the 
training-school were steadily ready to improve. Hu- 
man nature in the poor is no grander, as a whole, 
than it is in the rich, though we act as if we expected 
it to be. Margaret had many cases of discontent and 
suspicion, of indolence and cupidity, of selfish longing 
to get the most aid with the smallest effort. Patience 
and abundant grace were needed for the ever-recur- 
ring problem of how to help without demoralizing 
the poor; but, even with many drawbacks, the work 
went hopefully on. 

And all these sources, of anxiety perplexed Mar- 
garet less than one great cause of distress that never 
was out of her mind. Ho one of the malcontents 
puzzled and disturbed her as did Crystal, tlie one 
whom she liad taken into her home and her heart. 
Sometimes she almost doubted her own personal in- 
fluence for good, when she remembered that Crystal 
had lived by her side for months without being won 
to open her heart to her. It was not that Crystal 
was careless as to any of the light duties laid upon 
her. Even in the work for the poor, she took her 


346 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


part ; but, from the first, Margaret noticed that she 
neither cared to hear nor to speak of the class of people 
from which she herself had sprung. She listened, 
if she must ; but she nev^er responded, and never by 
word or look betrayed any interest in the poor; al- 
ways conveying by her silence her conviction that all 
effort in their behalf was vain. Y ery bitter, Margaret 
felt her experiences must have been, to produce so 
hard a spirit in one so young. She often betrayed 
her unwillingness to go to Heath House, and even 
begged to be excused from taking her turn as visitor 
among the poor. If this had been all, her friend 
would have felt that the painful memories of her 
childhood had created in her an unhealthy condition 
of mind ; but Crystal had a way of absenting herself 
sometimes for an hour or two longer than could have 
been taken by the errands. on -which she was sent; 
and when questioned, would give no explanation of 
her delay. 

One day Euth, who was an indefatigable little 
visitor among the poor, sat telling Margaret of her 
experience, both amusing and discouraging, when 
Crystal came in from a walk. 

“ Ah, here you are ! Euth said, rising with a look 
of honest admiration to greet the beautiful girl, 
wdiose face was radiant with the glow from the fresh 
air. “ I saw you at the corner of North Street, as I 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


347 


was going to take some fruit to poor little Jerry 
McCord ; and I hastened to overtake you, that we 
might walk back together. But you vanished so 
quickly out of my sight, that I could not tell which 
of those wretched dwellings you entered. Whom 
have you on your list in North Street, mav I 
ask?” 

A quick flush mounted to Crystal’s forehead as 
she glanced at Margaret’s face, but she answered, 
promptly : 

“ I have no one in North Street on my list, Miss 
Nelson. My walk this morning was quite in another 
direction. I had some work to take for Miss Heath 
to West Tenth Street.” 

“ And you mean to tell me you were not in North 
Street at all ? that I did not see you talking with an 
old woman on the corner — a woman with a shawl 
over her head ? Then you must have a twin-sister, 
or I have seen your double.” 

Margaret lifted her eyes appealingly to Crystal, as 
if to beg her to conflde in her ; but Crystal colored 
angrily, and said, 

“Miss Nelson has a vivid imagination; I did not 
know any one resembled me so closely.” 

That night, as Margaret was about retiring, she 
drew Crystal to her side, and said, 

“ You are not happy here, my dear girl ; something 


348 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


troubles you. Are you sure it is nothing in which I 
can help you ? ” 

For a moment Crystal looked ready to cry; but 
she dashed the tears away, and said, in an excited 
manner, 

“ No, Miss Margaret ; no one can help me. There 
is no help for girls like me.” 

‘‘And why, my child? Think how many girls 
we have helped.” 

“ They were not like me,” said Cr^^stal, bitterly ; 
“they had nothing to drag them down. If they 
tried to be better they could be so.” 

“ And cannot you, too. Crystal ? Can you not trust 
me? You seem to me like one living in constant 
fear.” 

“And so I am. Miss Margaret,” she broke forth, 
vehemently ; “lam in fear that I shall lose you, that 
you will send me away ; ” and she turned abruptly 
and went sobbing from the room. 

Not many days after this Mrs. Warren came into 
Margaret’s room as she was resting after her morn- 
ing class, saying, gently, 

“Are you tired, dear, or trying to sleep? If not, 
I want to talk with you a little while.” 

“I’m never too tired for conversation with you, 
dear auntie.” 

“Well, dear, you have become a woman with so 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


349 


many children and such serious cares, that I shrink 
from bringing you mine; and yet I am so anxious 
about a little matter, that I am going to confide it to 
you.” 

Margaret drew lierself higher on the pillows, and, 
patting her aunt’s hand affectionately, looked inquir- 
ingly into her eyes. 

“You know the upper drawer of my dressing 
bureau, Margaret, has been used by me as a recep- 
tacle for small sums of money, and, one day, a fort- 
night ago, contrary to custom, I left a gold piece of 
twenty dollars. Later in the same day I had need of 
it, and, to my surprise, when I went for it I found it 
was not there. I searched carefully; the silver 
pieces were as I left them, but some one had cer- 
tainly taken the gold. I chided myself for my care- 
lessness in thus placing temptation in any one’s way, 
and, not knowing whom among the servants to sus- 
pect, tried not to let my mind fasten upon any one. 
And now comes the sequel.” 

Margaret held her aunt’s hand very tightly, but 
never answered a word. 

“ This morning I had occasion to go to the same 
drawer, and there, in the very place from* which it 
was taken, lay the gold, not the same bright piece, 
but one tarnished and worn. Conscience has evi- 
dently been at work in the mind of the thief, and the 


350 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


money has been returned. How, who took it? and 
who brought it back ? ” 

I do not know ; I cannot guess ! ” said Margaret, 
nevertheless, a suspicion that made her faint and ill 
took possession of her mind. 

Could Crystal have done this? If so, what use 
had she for the money? Was this the secret of her 
unrest? A hundred conflicting thoughts passed 
through her mind, the foremost the desire to shield 
and save the girl. Before she had spoken, a rap 
came to the door. 

‘‘Mrs. Warren,” said the servant, “ the grocer’s boy 
has come to return this five-dollar note, and to say 
that it is not good.” 

“ But why does he send it here ? ” she asked, taking 
the money from his hand. 

He says, please, that it was sent round yesterday 
by one of the maids, with three others, to be changed 
for a double-eagle. His new clerk took it in without 
detecting it, and he would like you to be so good as 
to change it for another.” 

“But there is some mistake,” said Mrs. Warren, 
still holding the discarded note in her hand. 

“ Ho, perhaps not, dear auntie,” broke in Margaret, 
abruptly. “ Let me see it ; I both received and paid 
out money yesterday, and it is quite possible it went 
from here. Yes,” taking it in her hand, “here is a 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


351 


spot of ink which dropped from my pen as the 
money lay here on my desk. Please pay the 
boy, auntie, and thank him for showing me the 
error.” 

And her aunt sent the servant away, and turned 
and kissed Margaret without a word. I^one the less 
she saw the eyes filled with tears, and the quiver of 
of the lip, and the trembling of the hands, and knew 
she was feeling the sting of ingratitude, and the 
hurt of having been deceived. 

Little sleep visited Margaret’s eyes that night. 
Somehow, think of it as she would, she could but 
chide herself. She had taken the girl, giving her a 
home, but had forgotten what a temptation such rare 
beauty must make to purchase pretty clothes. She 
had even thought the girl singularly free from 
vanity ; but, evidently, she had not been able to wait, 
for her wages; Certainly, the five-dollar note was a 
part of the payment made to Crystal only two days 
before. I^aturally she thought the girl desired 
finery ; if so, then she had a lover, and that would 
explain the long absence, the self-absorbed manner, 
and all the rest. What course to take, how to save 
her, was now the problem. All Margaret’s theories 
came to naught under this experiment. She had 
said : 

“Let us give homes to the homeless, love them. 


352 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


care for them, and the dark shadows of evil in their 
natures will flee before the light.” 

She had tried it, and this was the result. How, 
what more could be done ? Fortunately, she did not 
have to answer the question, for a timid knock came 
in the early morning at her door, and Crystal came 
stealing softly to her side. 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


353 


CHAPTER XI. 

Margaret started up hurriedly in bed, and invol- 
untarily opened her arms. It was not at all tlie 
thing she meant to do; but the impulse of pity in 
her was too strong. 

With a cry of distress Crystal threw herself by the 
bedside, and buried her face in the pillow, while 
Margaret gently passed her hand over the golden 
hair, trying to quiet her sobs. When she found her 
voice she broke forth, raining passionate kisses on 
Margaret’s hands between her words, 

“ I was going away, Miss Margaret. In the night 
I packed all the things you ever gave me, and wrote 
a note to leave with them for you. I have been 
meaning to go away for a long time, for I knew I 
was not fit to be here near you ; but I would not go 
till I had earned enough to give the money back.” 

Margaret tightened her grasp upon her hands, and 
whispered, 

“I am so glad. Crystal — so glad you did put it 
back.” 

“ Did you know I had it ? ” asked Crystal. 

“ Not until yesterday ; then I knew, and I have 
23 


354 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


been thinking about it all night. O ! Crystal ; why 
did you not tell me you needed money ? Why could 
you not trust me ? Surely you knew I would have 
been your friend ? ” 

“ Don’t, Miss Margaret — please don’t say any thing 
more like that. Hever girl had such a friend as you! 
I meant to leave you last night, but I could not go 
without telling you how I loved you ; I could not go 
without telling you the truth.” 

“ Then let me have it now,” said Margaret, lifting 
Crystal’s head and looking her straight in the face ; 
“ tell me what tempted you, my child.” 

Crystal dropped her eyes ; but her voice ceased to 
tremble after she had once begun. 

“Do you remember. Miss Margaret, when I first 
came here, that one of the girls told you of a woman 
who deceived her, and sold the roses for whisky? Do 
you remember that she said she had a child, and that 
she would seek the whole world over to find her? 
Well, Miss Margaret, I w^as the daughter she was 
seeking ; that wretched creature was my mother. I 
had known with her a childhood too horrible to tell. 
She sold my clothing, even the shoes from my feet, 
in midwinter, for whisky. I think” — and her voice 
sank low in shame — “ that she would have sold my- 
self ; but I ran away. I got a place to learn to dance, 
through another girl ; I roomed with that girl, and 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


355 


managed to keep out of her sight, till I was hurt and 
sent to the hospital. Then I came here. It was 
heaven. All I had known before was hell. I had 
one terror, that something else would be found for 
me to do, and that I should be sent awaj. When 
you spoke of little Biddy Dolan, I feared I should be 
sent to her, and her home was near my mother’s old 
haunts.” 

Margaret passed her hand softly over the golden 
hair when the voice faltered, and encouraged her 
to go on. 

‘‘ It happened as I feared,” she added, shuddering. 
‘‘ One morning you sent me with fruit for little 
Biddy, and, turning a corner, I saw my mother, 
and she saw me ; I darted into the house, but she 
waited for me. When I came out she attacked me 
with the roughest abuse. She threatened to hand 
me over to the police; and I told her that I had been 
in the hospital, and was now at service ; and I told 
her, if she followed me to your house, I should be 
sent away; but if she would not try to find out where 
I was, I would bring her all I earned. 

“ She promised. She told me where she lived, and 
I went there whenever I had money, knowing she 
spent it in drink. Three weeks ago I found her 
sober. She wanted me to come back to her. I told 
her I would never do it. She then said that if she 


356 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


could get the money to pay her passage she would go 
home to Ireland, where she has other children. She 
was a widow when she married my father, who died 
when I was a little child. I cannot tell you. Miss 
Margaret, what a relief that opened to me. If only 
I could get the money — and I feared if I waited that 
she would change her mind. I wanted to ask you, but 
I could not tell you of her, and every time I tried the 
words choked me.” 

There was a pause, broken only by the sobs of the 
stricken girl. 

“Well, my poor child, I suppose I know the rest.” 

“Yes,” answered Crystal. “Only I never meant 
to get it in that way, until the moment the dreadful 
thing was done. Mrs. Warren sent me to the drawer 
for something. I saw the gold ; I could add to it 
what I already had, and it would pay her passage. I 
took it to her. I bade her good-bye. I came back, 
and went to work to earn and replace the money. I 
did it yesterday. Miss Margaret, and then I packed 
my things, and I was going away.” 

“ But where, my child, and why ? Did you think 
I would send you away for the theft ? ” 

Crystal shivered at the word. 

“ Not you. Miss Margaret. O no, not you ; I 
thought Mrs. Warren might, and of course you could 
never trust me again ; but — ” 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


357 


“ But what, Crystal ? ” 

“ I have to go, any way,” she answered, wearily ; 
“ for yesterday, when I went out on my errands, she 
was waiting for me at the area gate. She had de- 
ceived me. She had not meant to go ; she had fol- 
lowed me that very day when I thought I had bidden 
her good-bye forever; and now she threatened to 
go to the lady of the house and demand her child. 
She will do it. Miss Margaret ; she will come and 
make herself known to all the servants ; she will 
watch for me constantly, and even accost your father 
in the street. The only way to save you all is for me 
to go away.” 

“ But where will you go, my poor girl ? What will 
you do ? ” 

“I will go out into the country. Miss Margaret. 
She will find me at the Heath House ; she will find 
me at the Home for girls. I can never work in the 
city that she will not find me out. There is no 
chance in the world for girls whose parents are given 
to drink. And yet, and yet. Miss Margaret, all the 
shame and all the trouble are nothing to the shame 
of having deceived you, and abused your trust. I 
am as bad as she is, and worse, for the whisky takes 
away her power to do right.” 

“All that is partly true,” said Margaret, gravely. 
“ There has been a good deal of wrong in your effort 


358 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


to bear this trouble, and some time we will talk it all 
out, and then leave it behind forever. God never 
makes it impossible to do right. Crystal. We must 
remember that. How, for the present, I am going 
to dismiss the wrong-doing from my mind.” 

Crystal grasped her hands eagerly. 

“Yes, dear, I forgive you and I trust you; and I 
am going to protect you, too. How, go away, and 
undo all your preparations for leaving. Later in the 
day I will say what I want you to do. Meantime, 
come and stay in my room every moment that other 
duties do not call you. I want to keep you very near 
me to-day. 

There was a long, sweet talk with Mrs. Warren in 
Margaret’s room that morning; and it was decided 
that Mrs. Warren should make no allusion to Crys- 
tal’s fault. But they had not read the girl aright. 
The foundations of grateful feeling once stirred, she 
could be satisfied with no half - confession. She 
sought Mrs. Warren herself, and in broken tones ac- 
knowledged her sin, offering no word of explanation 
or excuse. 

“ I saw it there, Mrs. Warren, and I wanted it, and 
took it. I know how wrong it was, and I am willing 
to be sent away or to bear any thing you think best.” 

“ I am so sorry for it all, my child,” Mrs. Warren 
said, kindly; “but I have left it with Margaret. She 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


359 


will do what she thinks best. I can trust you if she 
can ; I am sure no such thing could ever occur 
again and the tears were in her eyes, as the shame- 
crimsoned face was withdrawn from the room. 

The next day was the day for the talk on art. 
Crystal was present, pale and grave, but with a coun- 
tenance from which all the hard, defiant look had 
passed away. Margaret asked the girls to come to- 
gether on the following morning, as she had some- 
thing of importance to communicate to them, and 
would like also to give an hour to hearing the reports 
of the various departments of their work. 

So once more they came around the large library 
table, and the visitors among the poor gave accounts 
of their success. The committee on the creche re- 
ported on the welfare of the babies, the gratitude 
of the mothers, and the increased cheerfulness of the 
one poor mother who was learning to bear her own 
pitiful loss by the help of these little ones. The 
orphanage department had its full complement of 
children, and Lucy told of the many poor children 
from outside who joined them in the kindergarten 
hours. 

Fair reports came in from the training-school. The 
condition of Heath House, its perfect neatness and 
order, the well-cooked food, the careful service — all 
would speak for themselves of the value of proper 


360 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


training in domestic matters to the comfort of a 
home. And the improvement in the homes of those 
trained, the ^record of the few girls already fitted for 
service, testified to the value of the training to the 
girls. Little Guido was the pet of the house, and as 
happy as a king, and his voice promised to make a 
leader by and by for the chapel choir. His mother 
sang at St. Margaret’s Chapel every Sunday evening, 
and, because of the boy, had a room at Heath House ; 
and pupils enough had come to her, through Mar- 
garet’s friends, to make a comfortable support. She 
was also interested in the music at the boarding- 
home, and, with Beilina’s help, tried to train the 
voices there, adding greatly to the delight of their 
leisure hours. 

The talks to women and girls still proved to be of 
the greatest use, and one kind lady and another stood 
ready to support this work. 

As for the hospital visiting, confined always to 
the convalescent wards of women and children, it 
had grown into a joy to the girls who undertook it, 
as well as to the sufferers, who learned to look for the 
kind voices and faces as much as for the flowers they 
brought. The ladies who received the convalescents, 
some of them, furnished a room, and paid their board 
at the Girls’ Home ; and some continued to make a 
place in their own households, sending the sufferers 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


361 


forth to some new life, renewed by the spirit of kind- 
ness in courage and faith, as well as restored to 
bodily health. Flowers still went to the sick poor, 
and books and papers also, such as were adapted to 
the sufferers’ needs. 

And Margaret listened to all, and then she asked 
the girls how many of them were happier and 
richer in their lives for the work they had to do? 
And there was but one answer. And then she 
asked if their own proper home or social lives 
suffered by the work which they had tried to do, 
systematized as it was, so that it should take not 
more than two afternoons a week from any one? 
Again the answer came unhesitatingly that, as to 
health of body, mind, and soul, they were better, 
every one. 

“Well, that being true,” Margaret said, “I have 
one more little project that will, I am sure, commend 
itself to you. Our success in the outward working 
of all the others is marked ; but our real success is 
the amount of good that comes through these agencies 
to our own characters, and to the character of others. 
And our real work is not to watch the running of our 
machinery alone, but to watch for signs of fruit in 
individual lives, not only to help one that we may 
reach many, but to help many that we may reach 


one. 


362 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


“ Now we are all right, so far as we have gone, as 
to our work in the city ; but I want a country sum- 
mer home, where our orphans may run and play 
during the summer heats; where our working-girls 
may spend their two weeks of holiday; where our 
invalids may get a breath of fresh air. Such a home 
has, by the death of her brother, come into the hands 
of our dear old Quaker nurse. She cannot live there 
alone, though the old farm is dear to her. She will 
come to our girls, when any one is ill, but we can use 
her house for our purpose, renting it at an astonish- 
ingly low rate ; and she will be there to mother us, 
except when we have sickness in town. It is not a 
very large place. It will not hold all in whom we are 
interested, at once ; but, by proper division of occu- 
pants and time, we can all get our breath of country 
air, and a few weeks among the hills. And I want 
to propose,” she added, “ that some day, when we all 
feel stronger, we shall take the train, and go there 
to spend the night, and look over the ground. It 
may prove also to be the place for our nursery, to 
start the plants to be grown in the houses of the 
poor.” 

“ Can you go, too ? ” asked Ruth, pleadingly. 

“ I think I might, if the dear nurse was there, and 
could keep the weaker ones of us overnight”’ 

It was early May when they had this talk, and a 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


363 


little later, when the apple-trees were in bloom, the 
trip was made. Never a happier party of young 
girls than that which drove in through the wide- 
swung gates, and descended at the vine-covered porch 
of the old farm-house. 

The nurse was there, in her muslin kerchief and 
Quaker cap, happy as any grandmother whose chil- 
dren had come home to spend Thanksgiving. Mar- 
garet had not told the girls that the dear old lady 
had decided to leave the home, in her will, to the uses 
of the work proposed. 

What a merry day they had ! And, at night, when 
all had taken the train back to the city, except Mar- 
garet and Crystal, they two sat alone in the moon- 
light porch. 

“ Do you not think it a peaceful and restful spot. 
Crystal?” said Margaret, drawing Crystal’s hand 
within her own. 

yes, so restful, and — and” — drawing a long 
breath — “one feels so safe! I would like to stay 
here always with you ! ” 

“ And without me. Crystal ; would you not stay 
without me, if the house needed you, and you could 
do here my work that I am not strong enough 
to do?” 

For a moment the girl’s face flushed, and her eyes 
fllled with tears. 


364 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


‘‘ I know you told me the one thing you dreaded 
was to be sent away. I will never send you away. I 
love instead to have you near me, and shall miss you 
sorely from my side. But this place needs you. Its 
inmates will need an older sister, as well as the little 
Quaker mother. I would like to be that older sister, 
if I might, and I would be here often with you. 
The little room on the balcony is to be called mine. 
Could you not take it, and do, for my sake, for all 
who come here, as you think I would do. It will be 
a beautiful work ; and you, dear Crystal, are going to 
find peace and forgetfulness only in doing some noble 
work. Are you not eager to begin \ ’’ 

And Crystal’s head bowed lower and lower, and a 
tender rain of tears fell on Margaret’s hand. A 
long silence followed, and Margaret knew the dear 
girl was having her hardest lesson. On the one 
hand, what she wanted ; on the other, what she ought 
to do. It did not last long. When she lifted up her 
face, it was bright and strong. 

“ I have chosen,” she whispered, “ and. Miss Mar- 
garet, if I try all I can to save and help those who 
come here, perhaps some one will be able to save and 
help my mother yet.” 

“Perhaps. God grant it!” said Margaret, sol- 
emnly. 

And so, in the spirit in which Crystal’s choice was 


A Fair Half-Dozen. 


365 


made, the work began, and, in harmony with all the 
other work, went on to bless. And the years bore 
fruit, until more souls than can be counted — until the 
records of heaven are read— bore on, into the eternal 
years, the mark of the life and effort of this “fair 
half-dozen ” girls. 


THE END. 


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